


More than a Number

by cherubicwindigo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, F/M, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, Robb Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 152,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherubicwindigo/pseuds/cherubicwindigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War, love, and marriage all have one thing in common: alliances. Whether it be two hearts or two nations coming together, unions are never easy. In this tale, all of the Stark children are a little older and just a bit wiser, making decisions that have far-reaching effects on the War of Five Kings. Robb seeks a wife, Sansa needs an ally, and Arya just doesn't want to be alone.</p>
<p>✧"The Maiden's Bold Plan": [Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark] - Sansa longs for home yet a growing need for vengence spurs her to seek an ally... in the hound.<br/>✧"A Girl's Decision": [Arya Stark/Gendry Waters] - After the Goldcloaks show up, Arya and Gendry run away from Yoren's group - to find their own way to safety.<br/>✧"The Wolf's Alliance": [Merianne "Merry" Frey/Robb Stark] - Robb takes a wife to strengthen ties with House Frey: little does he know what Merry is capable of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wars and Weddings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a phoenix, I rise from the ashes - still covered in the refuse of my burnt corpse. I'm not dramatic, that's a ludicrous accusation. Anywho, this previously-split fic is being revised, rewritten, and reassembled. So... Is it the same story? Yeah, sure, let's go with that.

  
  


[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/impending_negotiations/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=172423990)

# Catelyn

She insisted on going herself, without any guard or protection, to negotiate with Lord Walder Frey in good faith that the lord would abide the rules of hospitality. Robb trusted her to speak on his behalf and put the lives of his men on her shoulders. If Lord Frey did not open the passage across the Trident, their army would be trapped if Tywin Lannister's forces closed in around them.

The ride to The Twins used up most of her reserved strength, at least her cloak hid the trembling. Nightly restlessness plagued her sleep, even before the Lannisters took Ned prisoner, she could not sleep well without him. At least before her husband's imprisonment, she could face the morning knowing that one day he would return home. Catelyn clung to her faith but it slipped through her fingers like water.

As she rode between the daunting gates of The Twins, she held onto the strong and happy memory of her husband. He needed her strength as much as she needed his, if they were ever to be reunited. Lord Frey's man led her into the castle, through many dark narrow corridors, and into a dank great hall. The lord waited for her, seated and wearing a grim expression on his face. She did not expect pity from this man yet held onto the hope he might possess a shred of loyalty. 

Catelyn steeled herself as she walked into the hall to stand before the seated lord, subtly inspecting his female kinfolk. These negotiations would go one way or the other... an engagement would almost certainly be inevitable. Most of the girls were plain-faced and meek like whipped horses. A few were pretty enough but all of them appeared cowed by their grandfather. One girl in the back stood out, not pretty yet not ugly, with her head conspicuously held high. 

"What do you want?" The lord pretended his boredom yet he knew very well why she stood before him. It pained her to know this prideful man held the power to prevent or enable the rescue of her husband and daughters.

"It is a great pleasure to see you again after so many years, my Lord." Catelyn curtsied low, spreading her skirts out with her hands and bowing her head. 

"Oh spare me," the lord grunted something like a laugh. "Your boy's too proud to come before me himself." Catelyn rose to her full height and looked Lord Frey straight in his watery eyes. "What am I supposed to do with you?"

"Father, you forget yourself." One man in the audience spoke out of turn. "Lady Stark is here-"

"Who asked you?" The lord snapped at the man who interrupted. "You're not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead to you?"

"Father," another quieter man spoke up, "please-"

"I need lessons in courtesy from you, bastard?" Now the lord was becoming riled and Catelyn prayed to the gods to shut these men up. "Your mother would still be a milkmaid if I hadn't squirted you into her belly." As he turned his beady gaze back on her, she suppressed a shudder. "All right, you - come forward." He beckoned her with one hand and she had no choice but to approach. 

Lord Frey pinched her fingers in his bony ones, pulling her hand close to his mouth, and pressed his wet lips against her knuckles. Though his touch repulsed her, she resolved to endure the lengthy disgusting kiss for as long as he wanted to give it. The awkward false imitation of chivalry seemed to go on forever and nausea began creeping up her throat. Finally, his noisy slurping kiss ended and she internally sighed with relief.

"There," he released her hand. "Now that I've observed the courtesies, perhaps my sons will do me the honor of shutting their mouths." 

"Is there somewhere we can talk?" All of these interruptions were ruining the negotiations before she could even begin! 

"We're talking right now," he lifted one brow, daring her to argue. With no good answer, she held her tongue and refused to shrink from his gaze. "Fine," he huffed out an exasperated sigh. "Out - all of you!" The lord waved his hand to usher the crowd of his children watching the exchange. 

Catelyn stole one last look at the departing crowd, noticing once again the slender young woman who held her head high. If she could only have the chance to speak with that girl, it might be easier than having Robb choose for himself. She loved her son though at times, he proved to be just a shallow and immature as any man his age. He might regret it for the rest of his life if he chose a wife for her appearance rather than her resilience. 

"You too," Lord Frey slapped his young wife on her bottom and she jumped in surprise. The girl shuffled forward, wiping her nose on her sleeve as she walked past Catelyn. Lady Frey's dull eyes appeared dead, as though not seeing anything at all. "You see that?" The lord leered after his wife with a loathsome grin of satisfaction. "Fifteen - a little flower, and her honey's all mine."

"I'm sure she will give you many sons," she answered smoothly with as much grace as she could muster. 

"Huh," he grunted as he looked to down over his hooked nose at her. Lord Frey pushed out of his chair and moved to stand in front of the fire. "Your father didn't come to the wedding."

"He is quite ill, my Lord." Her father never had any liking for Lord Frey yet this was not the time to acknowledge that specific detail. 

"Didn't come to the last one either," he complained like a surly child, "or the one before that. Your family has always pissed on me."

"My Lord," she kept her voice soft to soothe his temper, "I-"

"Don't deny it," he interrupted shortly. "You know it's true - the fine Lord Tully would never marry any of his children to mine."

"I'm sure there were reasons why-"

"I didn't need reasons," he turned away from the fireplace to face her. "I needed to get rid of sons and daughters." He waved his hand after the departed crowd of his family. "You see how they pile up?" Lord Frey narrowed his eyes on her, pulling his robe forward to warm his bottom. "Why are you here?"

"To ask you to open your gates, my Lord." Catelyn struggled to keep the desperation and exasperation out of her voice. "So my son and his bannermen may cross the Trident and be on their way."

"Why should I let him?" The man's casual attitude, in the face of her personal tragedy, made it very difficult to tamp down her anger.

"If you could climb your own battlements," she quivered with barely restrained rage, "you would see that he has twenty-thousand men outside your walls."

"They'll be twenty-thousand corpses when Tywin Lannister gets here," he turned away from her to face the fire once more. His words sent a chill down her spine but she just barely kept her composure. "Don't try and frighten me, Lady Stark. Your husband's in a cell beneath the Red Keep and your son's got no fur to keep his balls warm."

"You swore an oath to my father," her voice trembled slightly as her facade of poise began to fade. This man, this odious man without a shred of loyalty, was her only chance! Gods willing, when she saw her husband again, he would never hear the end of this. Of course, Ned swore oaths to serve the king and she respected that... he also made vows to her. 

"Oh yes, I said some words." Lord Frey obviously cared little for his own promises. "And I swore oaths to the crown too, if I remember right. Joffrey's king now, which makes your boy and his corpses-to-be nothing but rebels, it seems to me. If I had the sense the Gods gave a fish, I'd hand you both over to the Lannisters."

"Why don't you?" Catelyn assumed, for all of his odious contempt, Lord Frey Had already made up his mind to help her. Why else would he agree to meet with her? What he really wanted was a little deference and an alliance with a House more powerful than his own. 

"Stark," the lord slowly turned, "Tully, Lannister, Baratheon," He spat out the names of the great Houses out like profanities. Lord Frey stared into her eyes with naked contempt. "Give me one good reason why I should waste a single thought on any of you?"

"An alliance can be made between our Houses." She bowed her head down in a show of respect, falling back on all of the training her Septa gave her as a girl. "My son Robb is of an age to be married, my Lord. If I might be able to speak with-"

"You have more than one son," he cut her off in his haste to take advantage of the situation. 

"My youngest son is still just a little boy and Bran is..." Her heart wrenched within her breast as she thought of her poor sweet son, lying in his bed helpless and alone. 

"That's right, I heard he is crippled now," the lord's callous words made her flinch. "You have another daughter, besides the one the new boy king took for himself." Arya... her daughter would hate any arranged marriage but she would do her duty for her House. "One of my sons Waldron has been pestering me to find him a wife. And your boy should take my son Olyvar as his squire, I expect a knighthood before too long."

"That arrangement would be amenable to me," she agreed because she had no choice. "A wife for Robb and a husband for Arya." The old lord nodded as if he were pleased by her agreement. "If I agree, you will open your gate so that my son and his men can pass?"

"I would," he smiled then, a gruesome victorious grin. Lord Frey could revel in his victory all he liked if it meant she could have her family back.

"Then, I believe we have come to an agreement." An invisible weight lifted from her chest so that she might draw air into her lungs with ease once more. "Gods willing, our Houses will unite and we will all be stronger for it."

"All right, I tire of this chatter," he fluttered his fingers at her in dismissal. "Run back to your son, and have him consent." His expression turned hard as he narrowed his eyes at her. "I will accept his word as a promise - and he will keep it."

"My Lord," she bowed a final time and did not raise her head before turning to walk away. Each step bolstered the strength within her, refreshing her hope that everything would work out in the end. Ned was always the optimistic one while her mind was forever preoccupied with the danger that lurked everywhere. With him gone, she never appreciated just how much she depended on their differences to strengthen each other.

Now she had to break the news to her son about his engagement, even though he still seemed so young to her. Now he was leading an army of men into war. All of her children seemed too young to be caught up in this conflict. Bran was the brightest and most energetic child but... he might never walk again. Sansa and Arya are just young girls, held as hostages. Her family depended on her more than ever and failure was not an option.

  


[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/an_alliance/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=172439357)

# Robb

The command tent felt cramped in the presence of Greatjon Umber, Ser Cassel, and Theon. None of the men spoke as they waited for his lady mother to return from her meeting with Lord Walder Frey. Robb fought the urge to fiddle with something to distract himself: a leader does not fidget and reveal his impatience. Finally, she arrived and every eye in the tent turned to her.

"Well?" Robb studied her tired face for some clue of how the meeting went. "What did he say?"

"Lord Walder has granted your crossing," she sighed tiredly. "His men are yours as well-"

"Huh," the Greatjon grunted and Robb gave him a sharp look.

"Less the four-hundred he will keep here," she continued, "to hold the crossing against any who would pursue you." Her expression betrayed little else besides exhaustion but one sideways glance gave her away. Mother had not told him everything, not nearly.

"And what does he want in return?" Robb braced himself for the worst news, knowing Lord Frey to be a shrewd man who always exacted his price.

"You will be taking on his son Olyvar as your personal squire." That didn't sound nearly so bad but it couldn't be everything the lord wanted. "He expects a knighthood in good time."

"Fine, fine." He swirled the air with his hand in encouragement for her to go on. "And?" This suspense had to be worse than what she had to say!

"And Arya will marry his son Waldron," her eyes fell to the ground and stayed there, "when they both come of age."

"She won't be happy about that." He felt sorry for his baby sister but selfishly wished that was the total sum this ignoble lord would charge his family.

"Hmm," mother nodded.

"And?" Robb knew what was coming next but it didn't stop him from wishing it away.

"And... when the fighting is done, you will marry one of his daughters." Finally, it came out and mother's shoulders lifted as if unburdened by revealing the truth. "Whichever you prefer," she added quickly, "he has a number he thinks will be suitable."

"I see," Robb began to accept the inevitable but it still didn't feel real. In his most secret fantasy, he always hoped that he would find a lady he could love and marry her without arrangement. Fantasies of love are best left to innocent maidens and songwriters. "Did you get a look at his daughters?" Theon snickered at the question: he didn't have to marry any of them!

"I did," she straightened up as if preparing for an argument. "One or two were quite pretty... well, one was." Mother faltered, unable to soften the news of his recent engagement. Robb pinched his eyes closed with his fingertips and tried not to imagine Lord Frey's rumored sour looks and beady eyes. His mind wandered, picturing an ugly old man's features on a young woman. He forced himself to push aside such boyish nonsense.

"Tell me what you think, truly." Robb's focus should be on his desperate need for an alliance with House Frey. His lord father always sought his wife's counsel: strong leaders ought to consider trusted advice at all times. "Which girl caught your attention: I depend on your guidance." Only Lady Catelyn Stark possessed the wisdom to discern if any of Lord Frey's daughters were worthy of the title 'Lady of Winterfell'.

"Robb, in truth one girl was very comely." Her eyes darted up away from his, filled with profound contemplation. "Another girl would have been pleasant enough to look at, if she smiled, yet seemed thoughtful..." Robb sensed her silent urging for him to consider more than appearance. He had never seen her so conflicted, she loved her children unfailingly and wanted his happiness above all else. Family came first to her yet winter had come for the Stark family. 

"Go ahead, mother." He needed a wife who possessed a keen mind to rule Winterfell beside him. "Your opinion means more than you know to me." Her recommendation was worth more than all the gold in the Lannister's Casterly mines. "If you could choose a Frey woman to rule Winterfell by my side, who would it be?" She sighed in relief as the tension faded from her face. 

"There was one," she still could not quite meet his gaze. "She was not ugly, nor did she act particularly bright but... there was something." Her eyes glanced up and sharpened seriously, as they often did when she spoke to father. "There is strength in her, an ability to see through the mockery of nobility around her. This lady never cowered, before neither her grandfather nor me, when all the other girls clearly feared him."

"I want to meet this lady straightaway." He turned away from his mother, throwing open the flap the command tent to stride out with purpose in each step.

"Ro-Robb, wait!" Mother sputtered before rushing after him, trying to gain his attention again. The time for talk passed: acting sooner might have already released his father and sisters from the Lannisters.

"Lord Walder can make his demands," Robb motioned to the man keeping his horse. "That doesn't mean I have to submit to his every whim." He began checking his saddle before looking up to meet his mother's worried eyes. "If I'm to agree to spend the rest of my life with a woman, I need to meet her first. Will you come with me?"

"I will," she nodded once, recognizing his determination. Robb waved a few guards to have them follow as they immediately mounted up and headed for The Twins: towards his future. They gained admittance to the castle directly but the Lord of The Twins kept them waiting in the hall. His patience ran low on by the time Walder Frey made his entrance. A waif of a girl followed the shuffling lord and stood next to him as he sat.

"You've made up your mind then?" The hunched lord scowled, turning Robb's stomach at the man's unpleasant features. Appearances aside, his father never trusted Lord Walder Frey.

"Lord Frey," Robb struggled to keep his tone respectful as the old man stroked his young wife's bottom. "My mother has informed me that I will be honored with a betrothal to a lady of your House. I ask your permission to speak with one in particular, before I make my final decision."

"I consent to your inspecting any or all of my girls - as long as you marry one of them." The lecherous smirk disheartened Robb, doubting any relative of this bloody odious man could make a good match for him. "Which girl were you wanting to see?" 

"Your granddaughter I believe," mother answered: a picture of perfect manners and elegance. "A slender young woman with a fair complexion and straight flaxen hair." At Lord Frey's nonplussed grimace, she continued. "She knows how to look someone directly in the eye." The man's wrinkled face tightened in recognition before he waved a hand, summoning his nearby guard. Whoever the lady was, she evidently commanded the notice of the people around her. 

"Bring Stevron's noisy daughter here now." The pointy tip of Lord Frey's tongue wet his cracked lips before he grinned at Robb, showing off a mouthful of darkened teeth. "You just might have a bit of sense after all." Robb caught the mocking intention behind the older man's words but also detected his surprise. He was stunned that Lord Frey might have any partiality towards one of his female kin... not any proper kind.

"My mother noticed her, my lord, and thought she might make a good wife." Robb clenched his fist as he watched the lord eyeing his lady mother. "I only wish to exchange a few words with her before I make a formal promise to marry. Thank you for allowing it." Showing deference to Lord Frey hurt nothing but his pride and could avoid problems later. The old lord was distasteful as he was untrustworthy. 

An uncomfortable hush settled over the room as they waited, Walder Frey looking bored. Robb straightened his spine, hands behind his back and his mother stood demurely by his side. The poor girl, Lady Frey, stared straight ahead. At last, hurried footsteps approached, announcing the 'noisy' granddaughter's entrance. Robb spared a glance in her direction and saw that his mother's description was quite accurate. The lady was not ugly, slender, with flaxen hair.

"May I introduce my granddaughter... Wertha?" Lord Frey sounded bored of his own uncertainty while the lady's brows narrowed as she shook her head. "Walra...? Waldina?" With a soft scoff directed at the ceiling, the lady lowered her deep-set eyes to address Robb directly. A flash of pale blue highlighted her eyes and he saw at once the strength his mother mentioned.

"I'm Merry," she stated directly to him, her musical voice contrasted with sharp features and a worried brow. To his surprise, Lady Merry's directness made a rather appealing first impression. Robb found himself intrigued by her straightforward attitude and honest expression. He silently vowed to show his mother due gratitude for her choice. The lady's outspokenness appeared less appreciated by her grandfather, who huffed at her correction.

"Fine," the lord rolled his eyes as well with his curt response. The family resemblance was most clear when they made the same exasperated expression. "Girl, the future Lord of Winterfell wants a word with you. Try not to drive him away." Walder Frey signaled his guard again and whispered something, likely ordering an eye kept on Robb. Lord Frey's man indicated for the pair to follow. Lady Frey slipped her hand around his elbow before Robb extended his arm.

As they walked, she granted him a shy smile while her vivid eyes shone with naked curiosity. Robb stood a little taller as he departed the room with the lady on his arm, trying to appraise her appearance without staring. She also subtly studied him with the same icy blue eyes as her grandfather, yet he found the shade striking when free of haughty disdain. An alluring rosiness spread over her cheeks as she let her gaze drop.

Lady Merry held her slender form tall with grace and confidence, at odds with her sudden shyness. Her thin straight tresses hung around her shoulders, contrasting with the dark dull color of her dress. The lady's face matched her form, long and slim, and held an attentive expression of thoughtful determination. Robb spotted a single tiny mole on her fair skin, on the center of her pointed chin.

The guard led them into a small private solar before leaving them alone to keep watch outside the open door. They sat at a round table in silence for an awkward moment, both observing each other. Overall, he would describe her appearance as 'interesting'. He wondered if she felt as nervous as he did, yet proved herself less timid by speaking first.

"Forgive me for being forward, my lord, I am often in trouble for speaking out of turn." Lady Merry's confidence had attracted mother's notice and was beginning to impress him greatly. Robb doubted she could be half as outspoken as his wild sister Arya, a pang of pain ran through his heart. Little underfoot would have already attacked him for daring to court her. "If we were betrothed, I would want to marry right away."

"You don't even know me," something about his incredulous tone amused her. To describe her as simply 'not ugly' was untrue: he found her genuine smile fairly charming.

"I understand men that ride off to war might not come back," her gaze fell briefly to the table before rising again with even more strength. "I would rather marry for one night to a handsome and kind man than live a lifetime with a cruel husband." Her forthrightness sobered his thoughts: Robb agreed that quickly sealing an alliance with their marriage would be advantageous. Father would advise caution, but his father was no longer acting as Lord Stark, he had to be his own man. 

"My lady," he took a breath to calm his nerves. "Becoming my wife means being the Lady of Winterfell. Is that something you want?" Her answer would determine everything, if he could trust her and even possibly love her someday. Her gaze locked with his, serious under her furrowed brow. He felt a sudden urge to run a finger over the crease on her forehead, as if to erase her worry.

"Not all girls dream of being the lady of a great House." She blinked and took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. "However, I am prepared to work hard as your wife." Lady Merry's frank words rang with a familiar conviction often heard from his mother. "In truth, I wanted to marry you from the moment you sent for me." She avoided looking at him by intently studying the table, blushing as her mouth curled into a shy smile.

"Why?" Embarrassed he had spoken aloud, and by the awed wonder in his question, Robb corrected himself. "What reasons do you have for wanting to marry me?" Her pink cheeks lifted with the corners of her thin lips and the naked amusement that lit up her features appealed to him even more.

"Lord Stark," Merry's flush deepened and Robb appreciated the enchanting sincerity of her expressions. "You heroically risk life and limb to save your family." Ah, she possessed a winsome romantic heart like his sweet sister Sansa. She caught his eye again and elaborated on her answer with hopeful caution. "That is the kind of family I want to belong to. Why would you show any interest in me?"

"My mother noticed you," he grinned when she raised a dubious eyebrow. "I value her opinion very much, as my father always has. They had an arranged marriage but grew to love and respect each other. In fact, I've dreamed of having a happy marriage like theirs." Lady Merry lifted a slim finger to tap the small mole on her chin and her expression of artless musing had Robb anxious for her response.

"We share that dream, my lord," she replied with lingering wariness. "I desire the freedom to speak my mind. Also- in addition..." She appeared flustered, gone was the poised young woman, a fidgeting girl sat in her place. "Never marrying," she murmured, "would be better than being hurt or humiliated." Robb recalled the vacant stare on Lord Frey's child bride's face and instantly understood Merry's concern.

"Lady Merry," he reached across the table and held out his hand, relieved when her slim fingers pressed tentatively into his palm. "I would never hurt you." Robb spoke seriously, keeping his eyes locked on hers: in that moment, he decided. "Will you be my wife, as soon as Lord Frey allows it?" Merry's heavy-lidded eyes opened wide, sparkling with delight. She must have known he would ask but her face lit up as if given a surprise gift.

"I could not be gladder!" Her shyness disappeared in an instant and she beamed happily, revealing her straight white teeth. "Yes, I agree to be your wife." Merry accepted his proposal with pure joy shining through her features. Did he deserve such an enthusiastic acceptance? Robb had to remind himself that lords do not blush as she raised her brows in an eager expression.

"Shall we go inform the elders?" He stood, offering his arm as she was already reaching for it. Together they returned to the hall, where Lord Frey and his mother awaited them. The hall filled with quiet tension, making Robb nervous: good leaders remain calm. "My lord," he hoped his words conveyed a sense of command, worthy of his bannermen's support. "I ask you do me the honor of joining our Houses by permitting my marriage to your granddaughter, Lady Merry Frey."

He bowed, waiting for Lord Frey's permission: some show of submission would appease the arrogant man. After a long moment, the lord still refused to acknowledge Robb's request. Relentless silence settled over the hall as Robb's back and neck began to ache. Worry set in as the awkward silence persisted, quickly followed by panic. What if the lord refused to grant permission and ordered another lady be chosen?!

"I won't find fault in your choice," the old lord snorted a wheezing laugh as Robb rose stiffly. Lord Frey appeared to have some affection for Merry, which Robb dismissed as absurd. "Yes," he said after an extended pause. "You have my leave to marry the girl - maybe there will finally be some quiet in The Twins."

"Thank you, Lord Frey." Even Robb could hear relief in his voice but he felt no embarrassment when he stole a glance at Merry to see her smiling. "If it pleases you, I wish to be married right away." He was already anxious for their marriage, which seemed a proper way to start one. "I have discussed it with Lady Merry and she agrees." 

"No patience for a long engagement?" The old man licked his lips and leered at him. Robb dipped his head to hide his distaste for the lewd implication the man was making about his own kin. "Very well, we will make the preparations - since you are so eager." The lord beckoned the man attending him to bend his ear, whispering an order before dismissing him with a wave. "I will provide rooms for you and your mother."

"Thank you, my lord," Robb stooped his head once more, though he found Lord Frey no less repulsive. He spied Merry's delighted expression and could admit the loathsome lord was right, he was eager to be married. Robb's future wife was not conventionally beautiful but she had an undeniable allure. She caught him peeking, causing a cheerful flush to alight her cheeks, which in turn made his heart skip a beat. War would wait: there would soon be a wedding. 

  


[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/missed_chance/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=172437139)

# Roslin

The dim common room shared by her female relatives, her prison, only made her feel more furious and devastated. Confinement in this miserable place, with the same familiar unhappy faces, would drive anyone to madness! Sometimes she thought she might die in this room and no one would be saddened or even surprised. They would just think 'poor Roslin Frey, she was pretty and now she's dead'.

"It is not fair!" She did not care if she sounded like a petulant child because the gods had wronged her profoundly this day. "If I only had a chance, he would have picked me." Even surrounded by her sisters, nieces, and cousins, she felt utterly alone in her grief. Roslin swiped a few angry tears from her eyes as Waldra put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Without a doubt!" Her sister's wild dark curls shook as her head bobbed up and down. Some of the girls made sympathetic murmurs and coos, not making Roslin feel any better. "Your beauty would have struck him dumb and blind," she assured with confidence, "I am sure he had a reason-"

"I shall be stuck in this gloomy castle forever!" Roslin wailed, pitying herself for the lost opportunity and cursing her devious niece. She should have found a way to approach Robb Stark, as crafty Merry clearly had! What good is a maiden's virtue if she cannot find a husband?!

"If any of us have a chance of leaving," Freya's somber statement lacked any false imitation of comfort, "it is you, Roslin." Her serious expression and resolute tone comforted Roslin better than any coddling. This should have been her chance, everyone agreed, and it was stolen from her!

"Knowing her, she pulled some trick." Marianne sneered as her dark hair fell over her scowling face, which made her plain features look dreadful. "I wager anything!" Roslin pondered if her niece hated Merry in particular because of their similar names. Then again, there were so many rational reasons to dislike Merry Frey.

"You're jealous," Shirei piped, "all of you." Usually her youngest sister stayed quiet as a mouse and by no means ever expressed any affection for Merry. Doubtful anyone liked the reclusive woman who walked everywhere with a book to hide her enormous nose. A high lord ought to have better taste, Roslin seriously questioned Robb Stark's competence. Even if the northern lord was a simpleton, he must still be better than any Frey man! 

"Whose side are you on?" Derwa frowned at their littlest sister, making her round face unpleasant to behold. Why did they all fight each other instead of comforting her? Arwaya and fat Walda sat in their own corner, whispering loudly to each other and throwing glares at Derwa. "Have your say," she challenged wearing an ugly scowl, "or will you merely hide and whisper?"

"I think," Walda proved the bravest of the pair, "Shirei is right." Arwaya meekly nodded behind her niece, quieter than the smallest among them despite being the oldest. Sarra rose to her feet to stride before her portly aunt, standing with her hands on her ever-widening hips.

"What would you know?" She crossed her arms and shook her headful of bright red curls, scrutinizing the fatter woman up and down. "You stood no chance of being chosen to leave this miserable place! We lost something you never had - and Roslin most of all!" Serra joined her twin's side to intimidate Walda into holding her tongue.

Silence fell over the room when the subject of their discussion breezed in, as if she expected to find them all gathered. Merry's empty stare swept across the room, locking with Roslin's eyes and setting her nerves on edge. How could Robb Stark wish to wed such a pale, frail, and waif-like creature as her unusual niece? Her thin face, decorated with a hooked nose and dead eyes, never held any expression. She looked like a Frey!

"What did you do, Merry?" Waldra taunted their niece, sneering at the reactionless woman. Merry's glassy eyes seemed to look straight through her relatives before moving to step around Waldra.

"How did you convince him to marry you?" Marianne stepped in her cousin's way, arms crossed and eyes glowering. Her tone clearly accused Merry of something untoward. How else does a woman secure a proposal so quickly?!

"Did he see your face?" Roslin muttered the insult under her breath... Robb Stark must be blind! Merry heard the quiet slight and strolled across the room to stand in front of Roslin.

"Roslin, my dear," the barest hint of a smirk curled Merry's thin lips. "I shall miss you most of all." Then she spun on her heel and strutted out the door, acting as if she was marrying a king instead of a lord!

"She thinks she is so clever!" Roslin glared at the door long after the subject of her loathing exited the room. There had been so many days of sorrow and anger yet this day topped them all. This was her first chance to leave this horrible place and she let it slip through her fingers.

"Don't fret over it," Derwa comforted Roslin with her usual frown, "father arranged it, for sure." She scoffed in disgust over the true reason not a soul liked Merry Frey. "You know he favors her." While most of their female kinfolk hid themselves in dark chambers, Merry was free to roam the halls without fear of molestation. Grandfather only protected his favorite from the men of The Twins!

"An even better husband will come for you," Serra reassured her with a smile, "I am certain." Roslin nodded glumly, not comforted but grateful to have her sisters and nieces for support. This time, Merry stole her chance, yet nothing and nobody could stand between her and the next man who came courting. She vowed to leave The Twins, not caring where she went, anywhere else must be better than here. 

  


[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/morning_light/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=172433574)

# Sansa

"Father!" Her own cries woke her as she bolted awake, panting and trembling from head to toe. "No..." Sansa remembered everything all at once and she wished to die. Would the gods not have pity on her? She did not even have the strength to pray anymore because all was lost. The last thread of strength in her body gave way and she fell back against her pillows, too tired to cry anymore.

Ever since the fateful morning her father was murdered, nothing mattered. The whole world turned upside down and ceased to make any sense. Every night, sleep refused to come no matter how long she lay in bed with her eyes closed. Darkness swallowed her like in an enormous monster and when consciousness faded, the nightmares began. By daybreak, she was so tired that she could barely lift her body to sit up against the headboard. 

She lay awake, looking around her room but not really seeing anything as it should be. The cosmetics on her vanity remained untouched, the unfinished stitching in her sewing chest lay unfinished, and yet life went on without her. Lords and ladies still attended court, probably whispering amongst themselves about her and her family. Joffrey, that monster, was allowed to go on living so shamelessly after murdering her father! 

The so-called 'king' was still a boy and yet no one could stand up to him, not even the queen! The look of shock on Cersei's face when her son defied her would have given Sansa great satisfaction if that defiance did not result in father's death. Now that woman would have to face the reality of what her son really was and yet, that did not provide one iota of comfort. She did not care that any Lannister get their comeuppance... 

Only Joffrey, who killed her father on a whim, just to be petty and malicious. Through her wailing in the chaos, she could hear his cruel laughter. He did not have father executed for his supposed 'crimes' but because he enjoyed watching pain. He didn't deserve to be king nor did he even deserve to live. If father sentenced Joffrey to death, he would swing the sword himself. Ice... she could not block out the sound of that sword ringing in her ears.

The king would kill her too one day, when he tired of her or when it merely amused him to do so. Would he use Ice to kill her too? Joff was too much of a coward to use his own hands. He tricked father into saying he was guilty and then killed him without a chance to defend himself. Father could have been sent the wall or allowed a trial by combat. Instead, he cowardly ordered Ser Ilyn... 

The rawness of the rage growing inside her shocked her more than anything, even Joffrey's cruelty. Sansa did not think a lady could feel such anger, or have such... murderous thoughts. It festered deep within the pit of her stomach, churning constantly. In these endless hours of wakefulness, dark fantasies would come to her mind about executing the king in front of a cheering crowd.

In her weakest moments, she envisioned herself holding her father's sword and letting the weight fall on that bastard's neck. Her father must have been right about Joffrey being an imposter, sitting on a throne that did not belong to him. He deserved to be cast down and executed for his crimes. She wanted to be the one who punished him for all of his wrongs and show him how strong Starks can be.

Outside her window, a bird began to sing its morning song, such a happy sound that it brought tears to her eyes. Astoundingly, she thought of the hound and the way he accused her of being a chirping little bird. He was right, her head was empty as a bird's, only singing songs and thinking the world is pretty when it is not. She thought herself a fine lady, deserving to be queen... that being pretty, kind, and good meant she 'earned' queenship. 

A serving girl interrupted her self-pity when she entered the room, bearing an unasked for tray of food. Why did they not have a little compassion and leave her be?! All of her servants were spies for the queen and none of them cared about her problems anyway. It never occurred to her before what a servant must think. Why should they pity her? This was all her doing, all her fault. Sansa watched the food with repulsion as the handmaiden set the tray on the bedside table.

"Take it away," Sansa waved her hand at the offending tray, swallowing her nausea. "I am not hungry." She doubted if her stomach would ever feel hunger again when her heart felt so broken. First, she lost Lady, then her love for a prince who never really existed, then her father and Septa Mordane. No one in all of Kings Landing could be more lonely or brokenhearted than her!

"I can't do that, milady." The handmaiden stood tall and dared look down on a lady without even flinching. So, now even the servants have righteous contempt for her? Those in the court must be calling for an end to her engagement with Joffrey and that small hope provided a little comfort. Joffrey could not possibly want to marry her, now that she is the daughter of a traitor who accused him of being illegitimate.

"You can't or you won't?" She sat up taller, straightening her spine to glare at the girl, refusing to lay here and take any more abuse. Certainly not from a lowborn serving girl! House Stark was one of the oldest and noblest in the entire seven kingdoms! How dare any of them look down on her?! 

"The queen has ordered that I watch you eat a proper meal." The handmaiden had the good sense to lower her eyes in a show of respect. "She is concerned about your health, milady." That assertion made Sansa laugh although she felt no amusement, only incredulous disgust. 

"The queen is concerned only with her own well-being," she spat bitterly, causing the girl's eyes to open wide. Evidently, they wanted to keep her alive, she retained some value as a hostage. The Lannister's would force her family to submit to their subjection just to get her back. Once she would have sworn to the gods that her family would give anything to keep her safe and happy. Now she understood how little worth her life held and it broke her already shattered heart. 

Sansa took a moment to observe the serving girl, noticing her slight weight and the shadows under her eyes. The outline of her collarbone stuck out and her shoulders appeared too thin for her height. Servants in Winterfell always got enough to eat, even during the harshest of the harvest season. 'King' Joffrey would never earn a love of his people for they were lower than rats to him. How could she have been so blind?

"Eat it," she commanded with as much authority as her voice could manage. It might not be wise to skip meals yet she could not bear to eat anything at the moment. The very thought of going on living while her father... she needed more time to grieve and cope with her new reality. 

"Milady?" The handmaiden narrowed her brows in confusion and Sansa nodded at the tray of food.

"Eat every morsel on that tray," she ordered, "or I will tell everyone who will listen that you are stealing from me." The servant began to sputter a denial but Sansa cut her off. "I might be a traitor's daughter, but I am still a lady and you are still a servant." The girl looked to the tray with wide fearful eyes, as though it might be poisoned. "Eat it." This way, the servant could not report the truth and therefore must lie and say Sansa ate.

"Yes, milady." Finally, some obedience! The handmaiden turned her back on Sansa and quickly ate all of the contents of the tray, wiping her hands on her dress when she was done. "I am finished."

"You may go," she nodded at her chamber door in dismissal and the handmaiden left, carrying the emptied tray. Sansa looked to the window again but the little bird had flown the way, somewhere far away, probably joyful to have so much freedom. If only she was a little bird, then she could fly home to the north. To sooth her sadness, she began to sing her favorite song about Jonquil and Florian. 

The familiar lyrics flowed between her lips without a thought, as tears spilled from her eyes. This whole mess was her fault, because she was such a foolish girl to think herself in love with a handsome prince simply because he was handsome and a prince. She did try her best to love him, even after she lost Lady. Her loyalty was rewarded with cruelty and her love returned with hatred. 

Unlike Jonquil, Sansa feared perhaps she would always be undeserving of love and no Florian would come save her. Perhaps love, like in the songs, does not even exist and she had been lied to her whole life. Her parents' love grew so strong from a marriage of necessity in times of war. If she had the chance to choose her husband, she would want a man who could be her friend and ally.

Oh, to have one friend! Sansa was utterly alone in this horrible place, ruled by a monstrous brat whom she might still be expected to marry. She would never possess the strength to bring Joffrey to justice and it would kill her to stay in this place. On the other hand, where would she go and who would help her escape? Arya had mysteriously disappeared and their father was killed. Septa Mordane, Jory Cassel, and all of father's men were gone as well. 

Her sister was right from the start to call Sansa a fool, for that is exactly what she was. She should have seen the truth from the moment they took Lady from her but she had been so 'in love'. Arya would have never been tricked by the Lannisters so easily. The hound was right to call her a little bird... a prisoner held in a cage, draped in silks, and filled with fine furnishings but still a prison. How would she ever survive all alone in this world of treachery?

  


[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/journeys_start/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=172436151)

# Arya

The group of men and boys heading to the wall marched northwards with little conversation between them. At first, her body ached all over, especially her heart. It squeezed inside her chest for hours but she couldn't let herself cry. Her feet moved automatically, one foot in front of the other, trudging towards a goal that seemed so far away. After hours of walking the numbness started in her feet, traveled up her shins, and then consumed her whole body including her heart. 

Frozen - that's how she felt - a terrible deadness dulling sharp flashes of stabbing pain. Father would tell her to stay strong but he's gone and she'll never see him smile again, never feel his arms holding her. When she was on the streets of Flea Bottom, not one person cared if she were hungry or afraid. Until she met 'the bull' - as Hot Pie called him - nobody cared at all. Everyone who loved her was leagues away, so far away that she might never get there. 

No! Arya could not allow herself to think about giving up, pulled under by the weight of hopelessness. Mother, Robb, Bran, and Rickon were still alive and waiting for her to return to Winterfell! Robb would lead an army to Kings Landing, punish the Lannisters, and save Sansa. After she got her family back, she would find Nymeria again, and they would be almost a complete pack. Father would want them all to keep each other safe and protect their House.

The worst part of this journey, even though the numbness consumed her heart, her mind remained alert and bored. Every falling leaf was overly fascinating due to the endless monotony. She'd scared off most of the boys with her sword, except the bull, the biggest boy in the group. Arya stuck close to him, lest the other boys think they could gang up on her and take needle. He didn't seem to mind her walking beside him, though he was dull company. 

She thought it best to say as little as possible - her voice sounded a bit too high-pitched to be a boy. Likewise, it took extra effort to avoid proper speech, which would give her away as highborn. However, the boredom crushed her, making this painful slow journey feel even slower. While she didn't need his interference earlier, the bull's unexplained protection reminded her of Robb. Her tolerant brother was always sticking up for her whenever Jeyne and Sansa teased Arya. 

Thinking about her family made her feel even lonelier, and almost pushed her to cry - something she should never do. If she started to cry, Arya didn't know if she could ever stop. So she pushed the aching ball of pain in her gut deep into the numbness, into her frozen heart, where it would stay safe until she reached home. At her breaking point, she gave in and decided to strike up a conversation with the oversized boy walking next to her.

"What's your name?" She looked up as he twisted his neck down to look at her and for the thousandth time she hated being so small. The bull was handling the journey better than she was but sweat ran down his forehead and gathered around his tunic collar. He seemed typical for a lowborn except bigger and stronger than all of the boys and some of the men. It was his smooth face and the fearful look in the blue eyes that betrayed his young age.

"Gendry," he faced forwards again after answering. She studied his profile for a moment, lit by the setting sun's orange glow. It was a nice face, if she ignored his grim and somewhat simple expression. Sansa might find him handsome except he was too dirty for her lady sister to think attractive. Arya didn't think he was too dirty but both of them could certainly use a bath for the smell.

"Where are you from?" Her curiosity about 'Gendry' wasn't nearly satisfied, though she doubted he was actually interesting. This never-ending walking in silence would be unbearable for the entire trip north, which would take twice as long without horses. They didn't have to be 'friends' to keep each other company and stave off the madness that this tedium would certainly create. The bull seemed irritated by her question - only the second one!

"Flea Bottom," he scoffed, pointing out the obvious. Arya bristled at his superior tone but she didn't want to go off on the only person willing to talk to her. True, near everyone in this group would be from Flea Bottom, the poorest part of Kings Landing. It was stupid of her to ask such a needless question, but she couldn't think sharp on an empty stomach. Then her mind went blank, forgetting any topic to discuss. Just then, her gut growled loudly, like a hungry wolf.

"What's your favorite food?" That was pretty much the only other matter on her mind, aside from wanting to go home. Her stomach had been mostly empty since she escaped Meryn Trant. Arya shook her head before she could start thinking about all that happened. Both Syrio and father would want her to remain strong - calm as still waters - a wolf, a Stark, a survivor!

"Why'd you have to know that?" Gendry's sullen tone brought Arya out of her darkened thoughts. He didn't seem nearly as phased by the loneliness and quiet as she was. Perhaps he was used to being alone but it was uncomfortable for her. With four brothers and one sister, there was never a lonesome moment in her life back in Winterfell.

"I'm bored," she shrugged, "and hungry." And lonely, which she would never admit out loud. When Gendry first stood up for her, his actions confused her so she became curious about him. His abrupt coolness baffled her even further, making his motives for helping her all the more suspicious. A few awkward silent moments passed before Arya gave up on talking to the bull.

"I like eggs," he answered simply but the small bit of positive attention lightened her heart and refreshed her curiosity. Arya waited for him to give something else but he stayed quiet.

"Just eggs?" She didn't bother hiding her disappointment in his overly simple answer. "Eggs and nothing else?" He shrugged in response, as if he couldn't see a problem with his non-answer. No description of preparation or favorite topping - just 'eggs' - she assumed the regular kind from a chicken. "That's boring."

"You asked," he chuckled - a soft appealing sound that surprised her. Something about that laugh reminded her of Jon, he laughed in almost the same way. Like he kept quiet because he expected someone to reprimand him for having fun. It was one of her favorite things to do, making her serious brother laugh aloud, because it wasn't easy and she was the only one who could do it properly.

"I like meat pies," Hot Pie interrupted their conversation. Apparently, she wasn't the only one bored and hungry. "Wiff a light and flaky crust." That would be nice, with a generous dripping of gravy sauce all over the top and a medley of roasted root vegetables.

"My favorite is potatoes when they're all mashed up," Lommy chimed in. "With butter, if I can get my hands on it." The way he said 'get' made her suspect that he meant 'steal', which probably got him in this mess in the first place. Apparently, the two boys who picked on her wanted to let bygones be bygones and Arya preferred not to have enemies.

"Ugh," Gendry groaned and clutched his stomach. "Stop, please: I'm begging." He was right - talking about all of this food was making her a hundred times hungrier!

"I'm so hungry I could die," Arya moaned. "It's been so long since I had anything but pigeon." Gendry glanced back at Hot Pie and Lommy before pulling something out of his pocket and stuffing it in her hand. It was a bit of dried meat and Arya wanted to eat it right away. With determination that shocked even her, she stowed the meat in her pocket and saved it for later. As much as she was starving now, it might get worse as time passed.

"Don't ask for more," he grumbled and went back to ignoring her. His generosity shocked her, the same as when he stood up for her against Hot Pie and Lommy. Part of her still held onto her suspicion of the bull's kindness - it made no sense. Why did he help her at all and what did he hope to gain from her? Or perchance, just possibly, he was simply that type of good person. Father was like that, protecting the weak for no reason but to be honorable.

"Thanks," she mumbled, a little embarrassed to be taken care of like a child. It felt good to have something almost like a friend, someone to watch out for her. He didn't have to give her anything or defend her from bigger boys. That protectiveness would be annoying except it reminded her even more of Robb and especially Jon. It was nice to have someone like a brother around. "Why'd you help me earlier? I can take care of myself."

"I was helping him more," Gendry cocked his head back at Hot Pie. "I think you really would've killed him." Her brother gave her needle and she would die before letting anyone have it!

"I would if he took my sword," she answered without hesitation before cursing herself for being so talkative. Yet, Gendry seemed harmless enough and even gave her food. Arya carefully studied him out of the corner of her eye, trying to figure out if he was 'honorable'. It's impossible to tell how someone's heart is by the way they look, a person should be judged based on their actions. So far, he seemed the most decent one amongst their group - not saying much.

"It's good you can defend yourself," his approval only reminded her of Jon even more. That's good, maybe they can be friends when Gendry gets to the wall and her brother wouldn't be lonely without her.

"Can I have a look at it?" The bull glanced down to the sword hanging at her waist. Arya hesitated to hand her sword over but the bull seemed honest, or mayhaps just incapable of guile. She unsheathed needle, passed him the blade, and watched as he inspected it. "It's well made, suits you too, skinny and little like you."

"Better than big and stupid," she snatched the sword back as he handed it over. 

"If you say so," he went back to paying her no attention, staring blankly at the road ahead. Arya regretted her short tone because they fell quiet after that and she was instantly bored. After a while, she peeked in his direction to see if he was angry, and caught him looking at her. She quickly looked away, pretending that the trees all around them were very interesting. After a few moments, she couldn't help peeking again and found that he was still watching her.

"Why do you keep looking at me?" She gave him her best glare, trying not to seem so small and weak next to his imposing size. He didn't look away, only narrowed his bright eyes like something about her face confused him.

"Is there a reason not to?" Gendry sounded suspicious, looking her over from head-to-toe with consideration. Arya would've laughed over his constipated expression but panic gripped her. No way could he recognized she was a girl! What possibly would give her away?

"I just don't like it," she answered in a deeper voice and glanced around to avoid his gaze. Her heart thundered against her ribcage and darkness edged around her vision. It took all of her determination and strength to keep the outward appearance of calm.

"You like to tell people what to do," he chuckled - that same soft sound - and for some reason it relaxed her. "That's alright, and I'm used to being ordered around. Yer not from Kings Landing, I can tell by your voice." His former suspicious tone disappeared so she relaxed again, glad he was willing to talk some more.

"I'm from the north," she saw no reason to lie about that.

"Then you're going home," he almost sounded envious.

"I'm going home," she repeated quietly, saying it more for herself. In her head, she recited those words and knew that somehow she would make it. Bran and Rickon were already at Winterfell waiting for her - soon her whole family would be together again. Except for father and Jon. Still, they would comfort each other and fortify their House even stronger than before because that's what Starks do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'Baelor' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> I thought maybe doing a reboot/reposting my old fic/s would be mabey-sorta-kinda-a-little-bit-easy-er-ish...? But, no, of course not: nothing worth doing is ever easy.
> 
> I don't know what to say. I'm nervous, excited, and impatient to post the next chapter.
> 
> The always relevant David Tennant:  
>   
> So... rainy... T_T<3


	2. Burnt and Bleeding

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/friendship/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173014311)

# Gendry

After a long day of work, he settled down for a hard-earned good night's sleep when he felt a presence behind him rather than hearing any footsteps. Arry didn't make any noise if she didn't want to. At first that used to drive him mad, her scaring the shit out of him at least once a day. After a while, he started to get used to his little shadow, following him everywhere and asking questions all day long. 

Gendry took a seat on his bedroll, turning to face the youngster who sat on the bare ground next to him. Right off, this 'boy' seemed suspicious, not like any street orphan he ever met. First, the voice was wrong and sometimes the words were wrong too. Then the little mite looked too healthy for an orphan, even with the lumpy hair. It was the eyes that bothered him the most, the lashes were too thick and the color too intense.

"Here," Arry held out a warm potato to him, steam still rising from the russet skin. "I took extra when no one was looking." He reached out to take the food, thinking with his stomach first, when he thought better of it. 

"You go ahead," he pushed the offering back: he'd feel too guilty taking a little girl's food. Gendry had been keeping an eye on Arry and sure enough, 'he' went off far from everyone to relieve herself. Even when they found a clean stream, Arry never undressed to wash away the sweat. That 'boy' was definitely a girl and Gendry didn't know how to feel about it. How was he the only one who noticed? 

"I got it for you," she insisted, thrusting her full hand at his chest. All in all, it looked like a nice potato: no strange lumps or scars on the outside skin. His stomach grumbled to just a little too loud: it was mostly empty as of late. 

"I already had one." Gendry couldn't stand to see such a skinny little thing losing even more weight since this journey started. She complained plenty but she worked hard and never sulked or pouted to get out of doing chores. Lommy and Hot Pie were forever going on about various aches or sudden illness.

"You are bigger than every boy here so you should get two." Arry knew how to make a good point and he was hungry. Still, he couldn't take food out of her hand: she needed it more than him.

"And you're the smallest of everyone here," he countered, "so you should get two." He was growing into a man, even starting to grow a proper beard, so taking care of girls is a given. His master told him that girls are weak and need to be protected. That's why his mother had to suffer so much: she didn't have a man to protect her.

"I already had two," she grinned. The smile gave her away too, not Arry's usual arrogant smirk but a genuine smile. There was just something too pretty about the way her eyes lit up: boy's eyes didn't do that. When Lommy smiled, it always looked guilty. When she made that face, it was hard to deny her anything.

"Thanks," he gave in, holding out his hand to accept the potato. "Now I'll be able to sleep through the night without my stomach growlin' and keeping me awake." Relieved of her starchy gift, Arry stood to lay out her bedroll next to his while he gobbled up her offering. Truthfully, the girl next to him caused his sleepless nights but he wouldn't dare say that. When she first made her bed right next to his, it gave him pause for a moment.

Where else was she supposed to sleep? At least he'd never hurt a young girl but a lot of the men they traveled with wouldn't think twice. It would mean big trouble if anyone else recognized what he noticed so he couldn't let anything bad happen to her. She's just a little bitty thing, with far too big a mouth on her. It would get her killed one day if she didn't learn to control her hot temper: as bad as a lizard-lion and wildcat put together.

Like he knew it would, sleeping next to a girl caused plenty of trouble he'd usually rather avoid. In the daytime, Arry was the bravest person in the group and nothing seemed to scare her. She never dared shed a tear or acted afraid of anything: even carried that sword and knew how to use it. That made her more useful than any of the boys with them and a far sight braver than most of the men.

Gendry let her stick by his side, letting her think he was protecting her, but really he felt safer with her around. None of the younger boys messed with them and most of the men ignored them. But at night, she whimpered in her sleep, begged and pleaded for her parents. She called other names too and sometimes he had to put a hand over her mouth to keep from drawing attention. When she woke, Arry never remembered her dreams and he figured that was for the best.

"I am tired but cannot sleep," she sighed as she laid down and he copied her position. Gendry tucked both hands under his head and turned his gaze up to the stars. The potato sat heavy in his stomach but it was uncomfortable in a good way.

"Maybe you ate too much," he teased. Gendry thought this might be his new favorite part of the day. Most of the time they would chat a bit before falling asleep. He never used to talk this much in his life: no one to talk to. Smithing is lonely work, marked by hours of time alone focused on demanding tasks. Honestly, the boys he met in this group became his first 'friends'. Except Arry, she was his friend too: but not a boy.

"I am not used to having a full stomach anymore," she sulked. Again, he wondered what she did before this trip to the wall. Even though she was skinny, she looked healthy, with good teeth, and seemed strong. And the way she talked made it seem like she knew book-learned things. That she wasn't a boy didn't really bother him so much, being such a young girl, and not acting like a girl it all. But she didn't seem like an orphan either and he tried not to think about it. 

"Never been sick from a full stomach," he admitted, "don't know what that feels like." It didn't sound like a terribly awful thing, in fact it sounded like a problem he'd like to have. Gendry couldn't complain though, his master always fed him enough while other bastards and orphan starved in the streets.

"It's like the opposite of having an empty stomach," she explained unhelpfully. How did she know what it felt like to be stuffed sick? Aside from being a girl, Arry still had plenty more secrets, and all the lies made him nervous. 

"I've known that a few times," he chuckled and looked over at her when she stayed unusually quiet. Arya stared up at the night sky and he wondered what she was thinking. Sometimes she would get this look on her face that made her seem years older than how old she must be. Gendry suspected she'd seen some things: things no one should have to see and can't be unseen. He knew better than to ask whatever it was she thought about, she wouldn't want to talk about it. 

Their friendship had something special which he couldn't quite explain but knew it to be true. Whenever they worked on something together, the task got done quickly and correctly. They made a good team, and he wondered if she would stay at the wall once they arrived. There's not supposed to be any women on the wall but she tricked everyone this far so maybe she could keep on doing it.

"Do you actually want to go to the wall?" Her question surprised him, mostly because no one ever asked that before. It never occurred to him that his opinion mattered to anyone. 

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" Gendry never had a choice so why would he waste any time feeling sorry for himself? "No matter where I am, I'll have someone telling me to forge weapons. It might be better, it's cold up north, but it's always hot in the forge." His answer did not seem to satisfy her because that same serious look crossed her face again. "Do you want to go to the wall?"

"The wall is north," she replied quietly, "and I want to go north." Course she did, her home was in the north and maybe she had family living up there. Gendry wished he had family waiting for him somewhere and a place to call 'home'. It was a stupid thing to wish, he knew that, his only family died a long time ago. He hated to mope about the past because it didn't do any good so he tried looking forward to living in the north.

"What's snowing like?" He heard it described before but mostly by people he thought were lying. Most people lie about most things, he didn't know why: just knew it was so. Arry turned on her side to face him and he immediately felt a terrible urge to look away from her expression but couldn't. She suddenly transformed, from a sullen 'little orphan boy' to something else altogether.

"It's frozen rain, cold and wet but soft like a feather." Her lips curled up to a small smile as she stared past him into nothingness. "It covers all of the leaves on the tall winter trees, turning then white like magic. When a lot of it comes down, it piles up and creates giant white hills." Gendry felt pulled inside her eyes, as they grew wide and looked freshly polished. Then she glanced at him, narrowing her brows in confusion. He must be staring at her like an idiot! 

"I can't imagine," he turned away from her and stared hard at the twinkling stars. "Guess I'll see for myself when we get to the north." It'd be best to forget how her face looked just then: it was simply a trick of the moon shining in her eyes.

"If we close our eyes and sleep," a deep yawn broke up her words, "tomorrow we'll be one day closer to the wall."

"Night Arry," he mumbled before turning over onto his side, facing away from her. Sleep didn't come easy, even though he was damned bloody tired. Seemed nobody else caught on to Arry's true identity so far but one slip could spell disaster for her. He promised himself to keep an eye on the girl: someone had to. Sometimes he caught himself wondering, something he never used to do, why he cared so much about Arry. 

She is the smallest in the group but also showed the most courage. Gendry never really had a lot of nerve and being with her made him feel stronger. Besides, watching over someone felt surprisingly good, sorta like it made him important. Maybe she would find her family and get to go home, something he would never get to do. Sure, Arry could be a pest by hanging around him and asking pointless questions to cure her boredom. 

And it was no great compliment that she chose to befriend him, out of this whole lot of criminals and poor bastards. Still, to be important to someone else: not for his ability but his company, he forgot how that felt since his mother died so long ago. It felt good to know someone's looking for him and thinking he's so interesting. Gendry could protect her on this journey, be responsible for her, and help keep her secret.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/handkerchief/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173013490)

# Sansa

The heavy gauntlet on her shoulder woke her from the daze clouding her mind, returning to the battlements of the Red Keep. The hound just stopped her from committing regicide. Her blurred eyes tried to focus on his face, wondering if he realized what nearly transpired. Would he throw her into the dark dungeon, the one her father suffered? Was Ser Ilyn going to chop off her head too?

"Save yourself some pain, girl." As gentle as he was likely able, the hound dabbed the blood on her lip from Ser Meryn's blow. Gods save her, she hallucinated the hound speaking soft and kind... madness surely consumed her mind. Sansa felt no fear to look upon his ugly face then. The horrible sight of her father's head erased all ugliness in the world. A face could not scare her after seeing her father die. Joff ordered the execution, yet she blamed herself most of all.

"Give him what he wants." The hound's gruff statement sounded like advice. She could not respond, too dazed and not quite understanding what he meant. What did Joffrey want from her? Sansa had no voice to ask him and was unsure he would answer her query. Though he stopped her from exacting vengeance, the hound did save her by doing so. Courtesy dictated she express thanks, but her tongue froze to match her heart. 

Only then did she notice Joffrey had left, taking his other Kingsguard with him. She and the hound stood alone on the battlements and that gave her a queer feeling. He was a strange man and that strangeness frightened her, but more than anyone else in Kings Landing. Instead of speaking, she glanced down at the white handkerchief still in her hand and offered it back to the hound.

"You'll be needing that again," the hound spoke softly, almost sad. He spared one last unusual sympathetic glance at her face before turning to walk away. She looked past her feet again, down to the ground far below, and shuddered at the murderous thoughts so recently in her mind. Left truly alone, Sansa shuffled to her chamber to let sleep claim her, exhausted to the point of nearly swooning. 

Time ceased to have any meaning... it could have been minutes or hours before she reached her room's door. Nothing mattered, no hunger or boredom, nor could she imagine ever feeling anything again. Even though she sometimes had horrific nightmares, she yearned for sleep. Once she dreamed herself back home in Winterfell and Lady was there with her wolf siblings. The wolves played, bounding through the snow as Sansa watched and laughed.

She did not bother to undress or remove her slippers, knowing someone would wash the sheets. On the other hand, clean bedding did not matter because Father was dead. Arya... she sobbed into her pillow, surprised she had any tears remaining. Sansa longed to argue with her younger sister again, to hear that shrill annoying voice accusing stupidity. Truthfully, Arya was too clever and saw right through the Lannisters' deceit.

Guilt pushed bile up in her throat, her stomach was empty with naught to lose, so she swallowed hard and sat up. Furiously wiping the wetness from her face, she cursed herself for her foolish crying, it would not bring father back. Her engagement to the 'king' would not be broken! Marrying Joffrey seemed impossible, she longed to escape, yet trusted no one to save her. 'Give him what he wants.'

The hound never lied to her, and gave her advice when he had no reason to do so. Why? Sansa considered his words, crossing her legs to lean an elbow on her knee and rest her chin on her knuckles. Joffrey was not the golden prince she used to dream of, he was a monster from her worst nightmares. After today, Joff acted as though he wanted Sansa to cry and obey. She wiped away another tear rolling down her cheek and smiled bitterly, thinking she still had plenty of tears. 

Could she obey Joffrey, no matter what he ordered? Was she cunning enough to smile at him and pretend to love him, while secretly plotting to leave? It was not a question of 'could'... she must if she wished to survive. The girl in her wanted to strip naked, crawl under the bedspread, and never get up again. That is what they want, now is not the time to give up! Sansa needed to think and nothing helped her puzzle out a solution to her problems like stitching.

Steel encased her spine as she rose from her rumbled bedsheets, using great effort to walk tall across the room. She knelt beside her sewing chest and lifted the lid, on the hunt for a worthy project. Every scrap of fabric, every needle, and a rainbow of thread spools were all neatly tucked inside. 'A lady always keeps her belongings neat and organized', her Septa taught her. A square of white material reminded Sansa of the hound's handkerchief.

Her head swiveled around, searching for the cloth, when she recalled stuffing it in her dress neckline and pulled it out. Its fabric was plain and dingy, with a spot of dark rusty brown where her blood dried. The shape of the blemish on the corner of the square began to turn the wheels in Sansa's mind. She grabbed a spool of bright crimson, then black, and finally a bit of gold thread. 

After taking a seat in her sewing chair, Sansa set to work on her task. She sewed for hours, long after the sun had left the sky, only pausing to glare at the handmaiden who brought her a tray of food. Sansa was not hungry... her father was dead. The needle worked through the fabric in perfect tiny stitches and an image began to form. Over the stain of blood, she had stitched a small bird with its bright red wings spread in flight. Satisfied, she wiped the sweat from her brow.

Calmed by the repetitive work, Sansa replaced the thread and needles to their proper place. She folded the square so that the design faced out and placed it on her bedside table. With a small smile, she stroked her fingers over the stitching. Father died, Arya disappeared, but mother and Robb were coming for her, she felt sure of it. Sansa would not be a prisoner in this gilded cage forever.

With a refreshed resolve that Sansa barely recognized in herself, she went to take a seat at her table in front of the cold tray of food. It did not matter what they served her, she consumed every scrap with unladylike ferocity, unable to taste anything. She did not even bother to look up at yet another handmaiden who arrived to help her get ready for bed girl. Before getting up from the table she wiped a drip of sauce from her cheek. 

As she undressed and readied for bed, the same resolve that gave Sansa the strength to eat grew even more. They expected her to just lie down and die, not her! She was Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell! She was descended from the First Men and her lineage went back eight thousand years! Her anger would help her face the daily tasks expected of the king's betrothed. First, she needed her rest... for tomorrow begins the fight for freedom. 

The handmaiden left as Sansa slipped between the sheets and before her eyes closed, she vowed to show the Lannisters they were fools to underestimate her. Their beauty and the pageantry of court had blinded her but the price she paid for that foolishness was too high. Every lesson her mother and septa taught her would serve as armor to play her part and find a way to survive. Darkness closed around Sansa's heavy eyes as sleep claimed her, she did not dream.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/brillant_jape/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173014665)

# Joffrey

A stroll around the castle, flanked by his Kingsguard, always made him feel the deference of his subjects more keenly. From high lords to the lowest handmaiden - all scuttled out of his way with bowed heads, as they should. This day was turning out to be one of the best yet since he was crowned. Earlier, Lady Sansa's face turned white as a sheet at the first glimpse of her father's rotting head. 

Joff only regretted that he had not shown her earlier, before the rot set in - when Lord Stark was recognizable. After the crows pecked out Lord Stark's eyes he missed the man's glassy dead stare, mouth open like he was about to beg for his life. That old man messed with the wrong King and dared to question his right to the throne, he should have had him tortured a bit. So much for being grateful at his mercy, Sansa actually dared to talk back to him.

Still - the look on her face! Lady Sansa appeared as though she would vomit and pass out. Unfortunately neither happened, yet her red-rimmed eyes leaked pretty tears down her face. The way her pouty lower lip trembled! Joff stopped dead in his tracks to throw his head back and laugh at the fresh memory. Meryn reached to steady Joff's stumble from his laughter, sobering when heavy footsteps approached.

"There you are, dog!" Joff grinned, happy the hound finally caught up, and wanting to share a laugh over his trick. "Did you see Lady Sansa to her chamber?" He turned his back on Clegane to continue walking to the royal chamber, hooking a thumb on his belt and smiling as he walked. "Was she shaking like a leaf the whole time? Did she faint and I missed it?!" His heart thumped excitedly at the sudden hope of hearing that he scared the lady that badly.

"No," the brutish man growled in his usual way as he fell in step with Ser Meryn and Joff had to stride briskly to stay ahead. "I left her on the battlements - gaping like a dead fish." Joff's cheeks nearly split at the apt analogy - the hound always did have a way with words. "I suppose that makes her more Tully than Stark." Amusingly, the lady's teeth chattered when led to the battlements. Once she saw her father's lifeless head, her jaw dropped as if caught by a lure! 

"Aptly put," he praised, "she was white as a fish's belly." Joff only wished Ned Stark could have watched his daughter's misery. Even a King cannot have everything he wants. "Did you see her face when I showed her? Her eyes opened up so wide, I thought they were going to pop out of her head!" He received only silence in reply so he looked back over his shoulder to glare at his Kingsguard. "Dog?!"

"Yes," the hound slid his eyes to his king with a bored expression. Even after becoming king, Clegane still did not see him as a man - just like father. "Your Grace." Joff expected a better reaction and hated feeling disappointed more than anything. He tightened his grip on his belt and frowned at the man.

"Well?" Joff shook his head in frustration. "Didn't you think my joke was clever?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Clegane focused straight ahead, keeping his gaze above Joff's head.

"You have no sense of humor," Joff grumbled, shrugging his shoulders. "No matter, I enjoyed my jape immensely. Maybe I should walk with her to the battlements every day until the head rots away completely. Then again, perhaps I will have the head sent to her room." No, then he would not get to see her reaction. "Ah! I could have it served to her for dinner!" He looked over his shoulder, noticing Clegane was still not paying any attention at all! "DOG?!!!"

"Sorry, Your Grace," the hound's deep voice rumbled without emotion. "I was thinking on the tongue-lashing I'd get from the queen - if the girl fainted off the battlements and broke her neck." Joff scoffed and rolled his eyes at his dog's tendency to fret like a woman, always saying how he was going to get into trouble.

"Don't worry about mother," he waved away the concern, grinning back at his giant Kingsguard, "she can't do anything to me." Joff faced forward with a confident nod, still pleased with his jape - even if no one else was. "A king can do as he likes." Mother acted like she could tell him what do and endlessly complained about everything. Why did the gods even give mouths to women in the first place? 

He could hardly blame father for taking his hand to mother when she spoke out of turn, yet a king should not strike his mother. Joff sighed, his good mood suddenly deflated when an idea came to him - a feast, or better yet - a tourney! Knights from the Seven Kingdoms could ride to Kings Landing to pay him homage! He walked tall, flanked by his Kingsguard and feeling invincible. Then dread settled over him, remembering grandfather. 

That old man would never let him divert funds away from the war effort. Who was he to tell the king what to do?! His mood plunged even lower as they reached the Royal Chamber. The hound opened the door and Joff stormed inside and slammed it shut, not bothering to be sure if Clegane was out of the way. Fuck him - he didn't even chuckle at such a well-crafted jest - the man was simple and nothing more than a walking sword. Why would a king care what a dog thinks?!

He yanked his vest open, tearing a few buttons, knowing a servant would have the garment fixed by morning. It fell on the floor where he dropped it and he collapsed onto the chaise, tugging off his boots. Joff lay back and sneered up at the ceiling of his chamber. He sighed and folded his hands behind his head, bitter about never getting the things he really wanted.

Father would rather chase whores than spend time with his son and heir - then he went and died. Mother fretted and fussed, spewing her loving nonsense like it meant something. The hound never cared about anyone nor did he ever want to be a little boy's sworn shield. Now he was a Kingsguard, paid well, lived in a bloody castle. Did the man appreciate any of it? Joff scoffed aloud - dogs don't have to be smart, they just have to obey.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/good_riddance/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173239304)

# Walder

The missive came days ago but he needed time to think on what to do. He didn't trust that Stark boy, but Robb was Lord of Winterfell now that his father died. They were always an arrogant bunch, thinking they could say and do whatever they liked with no retaliation. The uppity Lord Stark learned that lesson well before he lost his head, didn't he? Walder thought long and hard about how to deal with the new Lord Stark before deciding.

He stood before the hearth in his chambers - hands extended and fingers stretched towards the warmth - he was always cold as of late. His bones were cold, feet frozen, and his arse was colder still. Walter turned around and lifted his bedrobe to bend his backside towards the heat. The warmth of the fire began to soothe his aching body but the position soon made him tired. Damn the gods for making old age so buggering unbearable! 

Unfortunately, he couldn't stand to sleep in the same bed as his young wife. She'd be plenty warm, but the damn girl talks in her sleep. Quiet as you like when he fucked her and then mumbled like a gossip in the Sept all through the night. A knock at the door drew his attention and he moved to take his seat in front of the fireplace. Once he arranged his robe he sat up straight and glared at the door.

"Enter!" Walder called his permission and watched the door open as his noisy granddaughter entered. "The Lord of Winterfell is dead," he bluntly told her, hoping to see some reaction on her placid face. Not even an eyelash batted - the girl had guts and grit - more than any of his spineless sons, at any rate. 

"I see," her plain face betrayed no surprise, making obvious her previous awareness of the situation. "Is my engagement to be broken?" A flicker of worry crossed her long features, a crack in her careful stony front. Certainly, she wasn't the only of his offspring who wish to leave The Twins - good riddance to them all. If only his other children and grandchildren could catch high lords and ladies like this noisy granddaughter.

"It should go without saying," he explained to the simple child, "you'll prevent that from happening." Walder didn't care what she had to do to keep the new Lord of Winterfell, but he would never let her forget it if she failed.

"I will, my lord." Merry's head bowed in a show of submission, not fooling Walder for a moment. "Worry not, grandfather, I will not fail you or our House." He believed her - the girl might be the most loyal offspring he had, or she might just be the most cunning. That he never really knew where her loyalties lie made him even more impressed, not that he'd ever say so. All he needs is for her to get a big head and start pestering him even more.

"Smart girl," his praise was rare and desire to listen to her prattle even rarer. "Now quit your noise making and get out of my sight." Merry turned to leave when another thought occurred to him "Wait." Walder inspected his granddaughter's skinny form and unpleasant face. "You'll need to get a son in your belly right away. That's the way to secure our House and your position. Don't disappoint me, noisy, you've done well this far." 

"I understand," she bowed her head again, hiding her true expression behind an impassive mask. Merry might not be pretty but she was clever enough to get whatever she wanted. Though she feigned nonchalance, she clearly wanted that handsome young lord.

"Good," he waved a hand in dismissal. "Get some rest, you look tired." Robb Stark might be smart enough to look past Merry's ugliness and see her value - but she shouldn't give him reason to think her unhealthy.

"I will." Merry bowed at the waist even lower and Walder wondered if her unusual show of deference was her way of saying 'goodbye'. Trying to understand that girl wasn't worth the effort, and it certainly would be quieter around The Twins without her. "Goodnight, my lord." He watched her leave and thought, 'I must be getting old'. For just a moment, he almost felt sorry his most interesting granddaughter was leaving.

"Good riddance," he muttered to himself, "I like the quiet." It was quiet, except for the crackling of the fireplace. Walder sat alone in the dim room, staring at the flames jumping and consuming the logs in the hearth.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/grief_rage/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173237235)

# Robb

He did it. Allied with the Freys, chose his bride, led an army of twenty-thousand strong over The Crossing, captured Ser Jamie Lannister, freed Riverrun, and destroyed half the Lannister's standing army. Robb felt invincible riding back to The Twins where he thought Lady Merry would wait alongside his mother for him. She did not. 

He knew the lady found no romance in watching men ride to battle, yet Robb hoped to see her bright smile upon his return. Lord Frey shrewdly asked for time to prepare a wedding, the old lord had known exactly how long the Riverrun battle would take. After this war ended, once Father, Sansa, and Arya were free, he would take Merry home to Winterfell and never ride south again.

A loud huffy sigh interrupted his hopeful thoughts, bringing Robb back to his command tent and the two men in front of him. Theon and Ser Cassel were going over the cost of the battle and making plans to fortify their forces by calling on loyal smaller Houses to send more men. Many of the lesser lords were wary of taking up with a rebel and only contributed some supplies or even just a letter of support. He didn't need letters: he needed men to fight!

"I don't understand, Robb." Theon groaned again, sounding like a irritable child. Ser Cassel rolled his eyes at the younger man's whining. "Why hurry? You can always marry after the war." His friend sat back, arms folded across his chest, pouting like a child. Robb braced a hand against the table, rubbing the other over his face. Battle had not matured Theon, if anything it made him more insufferable.

"Theon," he sighed. By the gods, old and new, why couldn't Theon just grow up already? "You must understand we owe our victory to my treaty with Lord Frey." Robb led the attack but Lord Frey provided additional men he needed and access to The Crossing. The Stark-Frey alliance needed to be ironclad, lest Lannister gold tempt the old man.

"I'll follow whatever orders you give, but I don't trust that old weasel." Theon glared at Ser Rodrik, who gave a derisive snort. "Now, why did you really ask us here?" Robb sank down into his chair with an unrepressed sigh, looking at both men before him. He had lain awake all night planning: good commanders know when to take action.

"Theon, Ser Rodrik," he addressed them each in turn. "After I wed Lady Merry, I will reunite our forces in Riverrun. I must lead our bannermen, yet I cannot abandon my father and sisters. Tywin Lannister will use force get his son back, but perhaps Joffrey might be more open to negotiations."

"Aye," older man replied thoughtfully. "They'll know by now you're allying with House Frey and you have the kingslayer." He chuckled, a rare sound from a serious man. Ser Cassel was relaxed, a true man of war and reliable in trying times.

"I'll send messages to inform Tywin Lannister that my peace terms still stand." Robb doubted the proud man would accept. It might drive a wedge between Lord Lannister his grandson. "Ser Rodrik, I need you and Theon to go to Kings Landing to determine if Joffrey can be reasoned with." Robb ignored Theon's dismayed cry. "You are the only two men I truly trust."

"You mean to divide them." Ser Rodrik stroked his snowy beard thoughtfully, understanding the strategy. "Now that you have something they want." The Kingslayer was Robb's only bargaining chip and had to be used carefully.

"I would not ask you to put yourselves at risk: two men should not draw too much attention. All I ask is you go there and see what can be done." Robb saw Theon finally understood his strategy and the old knight seemingly approved. "Sometimes two men are better than an army."

"True enough," Ser Rodrik nodded as he spoke. "The old lion is no fool but he goes to war like he's counting his gold. Your instincts are better. The Lannister's forces are already retreating south, they won't notice two men slipping by." His expression turned somber before his next words. "I pray to the gods that we can exchange the kingslayer for your father and sisters." 

"I pray for the same," Robb's throat tightened uncomfortably. He took a calming breath to continue explaining, leading both men's attention back to the map. "Pack light, taking only what you need. Take the two fastest horses, you should reach Riverrun by nightfall. Rest your horses, and then follow Blackwater Rush to the Gold Road." They would have to move like ghosts to avoid Lannister scouts. 

"It will be done, my lord," the old knight assured Robb. "You can count on me." He did count on Ser Cassel, not many would understand why he would send an aging warrior and an irresponsible young man on such an important mission. Robb trusted both men and they were like family him yet were not. Being unrelated, the Lannisters would be less likely to take them prisoner.

"You have my thanks, Ser Rodrik." Robb looked into the older man's dark eyes and saw his devotion: the old knight and his father were brothers-in-arms, loyal to the end. With a nod, Ser Cassel took his leave to prepare for their journey while Theon stayed behind. His friend rubbed the back of his neck nervously before speaking.

"Robb," Theon's solemn tone was unfamiliar. "I think of you as my brother, you know I do. Your sisters are like my own and your father raised me alongside his children. I know he didn't have to treat me so well. I'm far from perfect but I will help you get them back, I swear it." His friend's uncommon display of emotion stunned Robb.

"Theon," he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I meant it when I said I trusted you." Theon could be an ungrateful ass, hardly dependable to do anything properly. Though he still acted foolish at times, his friend had been growing up: it happened so slowly Robb just recently began to notice. "I must speak with mother, I'll see you when you get back."

"I'll be bringing them back for you!" Theon called as Robb strode to his horse with a grin on his face. No goodbyes wasted, nor any dark thoughts spared about possibly never seeing Theon again. Climbing onto his horse, he cleared his mind and rode back to The Twins. Robb knew his mother would be in her room, navigating the way became easier each time. 

He knocked and heard her give permission to enter, already expecting her son. Inside, Robb saw his mother pacing the small room. She paled, her features pinched with worry, and clutched her cup but did not drink. Unnerved by seeing her so upset, Robb quickly closed the door and walked to her. She stared up at him, seeking his reassurance.

"Mother, I'm sending Ser Rodrik and Theon to negotiate a trade for Ser Jamie." Her eyes grew wide, hope breaking through her bleak expression. "Ser Rodrik is a reasonable man I hope he can make Joffrey see reason. If not, Theon will talk them to death." Robb smiled at his mother, receiving a frown in return, their relationship more strained than ever.

"Can we trust Theon?" Clearly, she did not have any confidence in him. "You always forget that he's not our family but our hostage. He could slit Ser Rodrik's throat while he slept and go to the Iron Isles." It was a mistake to scoff at her ridiculous scenario and mother glared icily at him. "We are closer to the Iron Isles than he's ever been, since he was taken from his home."

"I know Theon, we've grown up as brothers." Arguing was pointless, Robb knew neither of them would back down. "Mother, Theon doesn't see father as a warden, he knows he's been treated honorably by our family. I need to send men I trust to do this: Lannisters can buy almost anyone's loyalty."

"I won't agree with you... But I can see you've made up your mind, I'll pray, yet again, to the Crone for Theon." His mother was not making a jape but Robb grinned at her anyway. "Even if Theon's loyalty is unshakable, what if Joffrey - or Cersei rather - captures them? Then we could lose them as well."

"Whether Joffrey or his mother holds the power," the latter might be preferable in this case. "Either might want Ser Jamie back as much as we want our family. I know this is risky but I have to try. Besides, Ser Rodrik is wise enough for both of them." Robb tilted his head to one side, grinning at the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'd go myself if I wasn't getting married."

"Robb, are you sure?" Apprehension overwhelmed his mother's graceful face again, she thought his actions hasty. Gaining the kingslayer meant he finally had some advantage against the Lannisters. His future goodfather enabled Robb's victory with four thousand men to aid his forces, meaning less Stark bannermen died. 

"I gave my word," he made his final decision already. More than that, he was sure about Merry, more than he could have hoped for when he agreed to wed a Frey. Merry, sweet and clever: she knew her own mind and her smile made his heart jump. "I will wed tonight without regret thanks to your insight, more than you know."

"Robb," tears glistened on her lashes. "My boy, my first child, is getting married." She stroked his curls as he tilted his head into her affectionate touch. "Sometimes I look at you and I can still see you as the babe born from my own body. I pray you come to know love in your marriage as your father and I found in ours." One tear spilled as her lashes fluttered closed.

"Thank you, mother," he brushed away the tear trailing down her cheek, feeling his own emotion welling in his throat. "I miss him," he confessed hoarsely, finally speaking the words aloud. Lords must be tough: they must not cry and miss their father. Robb did not feel lordly while he looked at his mother's crumbling strength, he was just a son.

"I miss him too." Mother was already regaining the resilience he had come to rely on. The great Lady Catelyn Stark put her son to shame as her spine straightened and she lifted her head. "He's counting on us, and your sisters." He took a step back from his mother and copied her stance while blinking away his tears. 

A sudden knock surprised them both and Robb gave his mother a moment to dry her tears by answering himself. A Frey man stood in the hall, holding out a parchment, informing him of Lord Frey's orders that Lady Stark was to see this message first. Robb closed the door before giving the missive to his mother, watching her expression as she read.

Shock overwhelmed his mother's features and she swayed slightly, her breathing ragged and eyes wide with horror. She let the paper flutter to the floor before turning away to cross the room and sat shakily in a chair. Robb bent, retrieving the parchment, reading it once hurriedly then again to be sure what he read. Father: no, gods no, please let this be a lie! How could this happen?!

"Robb," mother tor him, her voice seemed far away. "My son..." She choked on his name, reaching out through her own grief, but he was already gone. "Robb!" Even her scream could not stop his cowardice, the Lord of Winterfell ran away. Robb could not breathe he needed fresh air outside The Twins' gloomy halls. He burst through a door leading to the battlements, trying to breathe but the air trapped in his throat. 

Heart racing, knees trembling, he fell against the wall and slid down it. A lord does not faint, lords do not lose their mind! He sobbed in earnest then, not caring who heard or saw. Robb's heart was literally breaking, he felt afraid he would die too. Even with the chilled air, his skin burned, yanking his cloak's clasp he let the fabric fall onto the stone floor. Sweat soaked his tunic as he pulled the laces at his chest, trying to loosen whatever choked him. 

Could this all be a dream, some horrible nightmare? Robb turned his forehead against the cool wall and drew a ragged breath. Father really was dead. He suddenly leapt to his feet, drew his broadsword, and slashed the wall furiously. The fruitless attack was ruining his sword but he did not care, every muscle in his body screamed to swing it. The metal clanged as it hit stone, shooting off sparks from the tip.

"My lord?" Her soft call pulled him out of his insanity, Robb's sword dropped with a clatter as he focused on his future wife. Why would the gods let her see him like this? Merry only looked concerned as she held out one hand to him, as if to pet a frightened animal. "I have just heard of your loss, I am terribly sorry."

"Sorry?" Robb heard the unnatural pitch of his voice as words poured off his tongue without his permission. "The Lannisters will be sorry: I'll kill them all." His fists clenched by his sides as rage boiled his veins. Merry approached him slowly, grasped one of his shaking fists, and peered into his face.

"This rage is not good for you." Merry held his fist in one hand and stroked his arm with the other, her slender fingers wrinkling the dark fabric of his tunic. Her pale skin nearly glowed in contrast with his sleeve, distracting him from his anger. "I know the loss is painful," she murmured. Her comfort reached him: somehow, he knew she spoke from experience. "You are strong, you will get through this."

"What should I do?" His voice broke, knowing that only he could answer that question. From the instant he knew his father passed, his mind repeated that phrase. Robb was no closer to finding an answer now than before he had ruined his sword and shamed himself in front of his betrothed.

"I will respect whatever decision you make." Merry's strained words made Robb look up to see tears in her eyes. "My father would bear a grudge against you if our engagement is broken, but he would not attack your army. If you are going to leave, do it as soon as possible because you will not be safe here."

"My lady, I still want-" Did he want to marry now that the urgency had lifted? Without House Frey's help, Robb would have never got this far, yet his father died regardless of his best efforts. Merry ceased stroking his arm as tears flowed freely down her long face. A throat cleared behind them and the alarmed pair broke apart hastily.

"Lady Catelyn," Merry bowed somberly, addressing his mother. "I am sorry for your loss." His mother's eyes were red yet she held her head high, proving her resilience. She fixed her gaze on Merry before politely nodding, clearing her throat again before responding.

"Thank you." Mother's voice was horse, already having wailed her heartache, and moved on while her son wept like an inconsolable child. Merry left without another word, seeing that mother and son needed each other. Robb watched her leave, her thin shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Did she cry for him, or did she believe he would break their engagement? What should he do?

"I will kill them all," he told his mother as she folded him into her warm embrace. The fur of her cloak soaked up his uncontrolled weeping. Robb would not hide his sorrow or malice from her. Behind her courtesy, his proper lady mother was a Stark and she craved vengeance as well. "Every one of them," he vowed. Mother shushed him, stroking his hair as she did when he was young.

"My boy," she whispered, he gave a shuddering gasp at the affection in her voice. "They have your sisters." Robb could only cry on her shoulder, mother should be one leading his men. "We have to get the girls back... then we will kill them all." She sounded so certain he nearly asked her what he should do, yet he merely continued trembling in her arms, and she let him.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/sleepless_nights/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173013079)

# Sandor

It was dark but a man doesn't need fire to drink alone in his room. Sandor liked the dark, thought it natural that night should be dark. Firelight is unnatural, it flickers and glows while casting ugly shadows - mocking him. It reminded him that he's just an ugly shadow of a man, following a cruel brat who those in power have made a king. Did the fucking idiots really think Joff was controllable? 

The boy developed a taste for death that surprised even Sandor, not that it was his place to question kings. He was a dog, loyal to the end, except when it came to the little bird. Not long ago, he relished the horror on her face, took twisted pride in making her quiver with fear at his ugliness. Not anymore and likely not ever again. After that fool Eddard Stark got himself killed by Joff, the girl's scream echoed in his head for days.

He waited, that day, until her screams ended and she crumpled to the ground. Then he grabbed her father's head and held it up to the crowd. They cheered - fucking peasants loved seeing a lord taken down - none of them gave a bleeding fuck about the girl screaming for her father. The little bird will face hatred and scorn, likely for the first time in her short easy life. She'd be dead before winter came and he shouldn't bother to care.

On the battlements Sandor recognized that glassy look in her eye - he'd seen it more times than he could count on the battlefield. She'd have killed the boy and herself without hesitation, not that he blamed her. In a way, he was proud of the little bird - didn't think she had it in her! Lady Sansa was still a pretty little fool, but she was a Stark, might be a bit of wolf in the girl. Could be she needed a protector to help keep her fool head on her shoulders.

He snorted at his own thought - she'd be so bloody grateful she'd fall to her knees and suck his cock. More like she wouldn't even recognize his help if he gave it, most women fixated on his ruined face and couldn't see beyond it. The others just didn't look his way, except the bravest whores. Maybe that's what he needed, how long had it been? Sandor couldn't remember or even care because he hated fucking whores.

A good fuck served him well enough - didn't even mind paying for it. Whores were liars by trade and he hated liars and didn't particularly enjoy fucking women he hated. Likely they hated him just as much, made things awkward. Wine is better - wine doesn't judge a man's face or lie to him, it just takes away everything fucked up. Sandor took a deep pull from the wine cask and the screaming finally quieted.

Fuck Joff, he'd ruined a perfectly good thing! Sandor was having right pleasant dreams, instead of endless nightmares. The only flames that burned him lately was proper Lady Sansa Stark's fiery hair. Most every night he went to sleep since he first saw her, the little bird fucked him in every manner of unladylike positions. She did scream - and sing - with joy. She screamed him name and begged for his cock all night then left him come morning.

Sandor woke after those dream feeling more satisfied than he had after any real fuck, yet somehow wanting her even more. He even dreamed of taking her gentle after making her his wife - fat fucking chance of that - his best night's sleep in years. Mayhaps ever in his life since his mother died. Sometimes, more often than he'd like to admit even to himself, she only sang to him in his dreams.

The girl's terrified shrieking, as her father's sword sliced through his neck, came to haunt his sleep. Still better than the fire - nothings worse than being burnt. Wasn't near as peaceful as having the little bird. Now Joff's gone and pissed all over the one thing that gave him even slight happiness - that buggering brat! Balls not even dropped yet or he wouldn't waste time torturing the girl, Sandor would've had her already if he could.

When he'd dreamed of fucking the little bird, he didn't need wine to sleep - just drifted into her arms. She wouldn't hold him tonight, nor call his name with passion as he disregarded the impossibility of it all. Tonight she'd scream and fall, he'd want to turn towards her - wanting to help her - but his feet always carried him to the head. Sandor would grab it and lift it to the sea of twisted faces screaming for noble blood. 

The same dream came to him every night since Lord Stark lost his head - exactly as it happened but for one difference. Her frightened screams called his name, begging him to save her father. To drown out the sound and because he hated his fucked up need to protect a pretty lady he gulped another long guzzle of wine. When the cask was empty, he threw it down next to the other on the floor. 

Sandor thought about grabbing another from the end of the bed but decided against it. His head already whirled too much and made his stomach twist into knots. As he relaxed back against his mattress and tried to think about anything else but the Stark girl. He ignored the wetness on his cheeks, turning his face into the pillow - fucking wine.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/known_secrets/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173239989)

# Merry

The dead of night was the only time she liked this castle, dark and gloomy as it was, it still possessed some architectural charm. By now most of the men found their beds while an unlucky few stood on the battlements keeping watch on Robb Stark's army. On the other side they would be keeping watch for signs of Tywin Lannister. One young man in particular would surely be wide awake and there was only one place left to look for him.

Merry opened the Maester's workroom door as quietly as she could, extinguishing the glow of her candle. Her slippers scraped softly against the stone floor though she endeavored to tread silently. She closed the door behind her, making a soft but audible click, and she held her breath to see if he noticed. He sat on the ground with his back against a bookshelf, staring intently at a book held in his hands.

"Oly," she called his name and the book soared out of his grasp.

"Bloody hells," his hand flew to his chest to cover his heart as he stared wide eyed at her. "Merry, you scared the shit outta me!" Oly glared at her, still breathing hard from his shock. "Always lurking about, no wonder everyone's frightened by you."

"There is a buzzing sound in my ear, like a flying pest." She stuck her finger in her ear and wiggled it about. "You said you want me to tell grandfather-?"

"No!" The young man completely reversed his defiant expression and held up both hands in a defensive posture. "Truly, I'm sorry." He scrambled to his feet and put both hands behind his back. "Please, tell me what you need of me."

"My wedding has been delayed," she frowned at the thrown book lying on the floor and he scrambled to pick it up.

"Why'd you tell him?" Oly hurriedly stuffed the book into the correct bookshelf so he could not see the look she gave him until he turned around. "Never mind," he shrugged. "Your schemes are too complicated for my brain."

"Robb Stark will marry me," her voice sounded so confident that she almost believed herself. "He is too honorable to go back on his word."

"Poor man," he shook his head sympathetically and she scoffed at his blatant insult. "I mean, because of his father!" Merry rolled her eyes at his poor attempt to cover the slip. Let him think what he wants, even if Robb Stark would not love her... he would respect her. That was enough for any woman with half a brain.

"Lord Eddard Stark was an honorable man," she strolled across the room to take a seat at the nearby window. From this advantage she could see Robb's entire army. "Married to an honorable woman," she turned her head to lock eyes with her uncle. "And he is dead. The new Lord Stark won't be burdened with an honorable wife. You will help me keep him safe from himself."

"I want to serve him honestly, his men talk about him and say he's a noble leader." Oly knew he did not have a choice and was only trying to seem like a good man by protesting. His own self-preservation prevented him from truly serving her husband-to-be with loyalty.

"We don't always get the things we want, dear uncle." Merry learned that lesson at such a young age, she could not remember being unaware of that harsh truth. "Ask your sister," it was petty to bring up Roslyn yet it felt good. How much easier would things be for Oly if his sister was going to marry Rob Stark. Life is not supposed to be easy, we are meant to struggle for everything we gain.

"Tell me what you want," he grew impatient with her gloating.

"You will be in a position to help my future husband, much more than I can." Merry did not need Oly's loyalty to ensure his devotion, she had him by the balls. "Keep your eyes and ears open and relay to me all that you see and hear."

"You want me to spy on him?" He squirmed uncomfortably, shifting from one foot to the other and glancing noticeably at the door as it wanting to run away.

"If you want to use that word, yes." Merry ignored the way his eyes widened with naked judgment of her boldness. "Watch over his chambers tonight, if he makes any preparations to leave then come to me at once."

"All night?" His face screwed up into an ugly pout that probably would have looked quite fetching on his sister. No, the poor boy looks like a Frey, as did she.

"Grandfather still asks me to investigate who started the fire in the library." She hardened her gaze in an effort to quell any further complaints. This would not be a negotiation because she held the power while he wanted to keep his secrets. "He does not seem to believe I cannot find out."

"You're a cold woman, Merry Frey." Oly glared at her with naked hatred and a hint of admiration, truly a Frey.

"Cold yes," she nodded in acceptance of the label. That is but one word men call a woman determined to make a good life for herself. Selfish, cold, calculating... noisy, Merry earned more than a few titles over the years. "I am cold, uncle, and I would not hesitate to be rid of you if I thought another would be more useful. Who do you think convinced grandfather to see your position elevated?"

"Should I come to you in the morning?" He crossed his arms in front of his chest and refused to look at her but at least he was finally obedient.

"No, seek your bed if he does not leave by morning light." She saw no need to exhaust the man to death, he would be very useful to her in the future. "I have other sources of information." Yet not for much longer, when she left The Twins all of her secrets would become useless. Not for one moment would she miss this place and all of its ghastly skeletons in every cupboard!

Oly left without another word and she was glad to see the back of him. Her bed called to her but this night was destined to be a sleepless one. Nothing left to do but wait for Robb Stark to make his decision, keeping his word or disgracing her. If he proved himself to be less honorable than she believed, all of her admiration for him would perish. Merry found her way to the Sept and knelt in front of the Crone to pray.

"Crone, I have sought your wisdom all my life," she bowed her head to rest on her clasped hands. "Hear me now and give me guidance... Grant me the wisdom to keep him." Merry thought she would never have a husband because she intended to never settle. Then the impossible Robb Stark breezed into her life and made her ice-covered heart beat for the first time. She would give or do anything to leave with him and never return to The Twins.

"You know my heart is already lost to him," she choked on the request but refused to cry or beg. "Give him the foresight to see I am meant to be his and he's meant to be mine." Robb was too good, like the father he admired and mourned with such passion. He needed her calculative wit to consider the darker side of matters with a rational brain, she could be a great asset to his war strategy. "Please help me this once, I'll never ask for more." 

"Don't let him leave," she begged... just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'Fire and Blood' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> I've been *SO* busy, but the good kind of busy so I can't complain (I still will).
> 
> Pretty please, dear readers - enable my custom skin for this fanfic: I worked my arse off making it. And let me know in the comments if it's doing something funky on your smartphones or tablets. Thanks!!!
> 
> I hope I have more time next week to get posting a *little* more frequently. *Fingers crossed!*


	3. Honest Liars

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/secrets_have_power/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173827578)

# Merry

Her prayers were answered, Robb Stark consented to uphold their engagement agreement, and the day of her wedding finally arrived. Oly delivered the news last night, not a day too soon to save her bruised knees from kneeling in the Sept. All of her belongings were packed, though she had no idea if he planned to leave her in The Twins while he rode south. Merry already decided she would go north to Winterfell, no matter what her husband decided.

He would learn soon enough that she would do as she pleased... after the wedding, it would be too late for him to regret. Only a few more hours and she would no longer bear the name 'Frey'. She would never belong to this family again and that thought caused not one jot of distress. This castle swarmed with liars and blatherskites... goodbye and good riddance to them all. Only a single possession gave her pause as to what should be done with it.

After careful consideration, she could think of only one member of her family who deserved Merry's most prized possession. She held the journal close to her chest as she searched for her quietest aunt, a woman most adept at hiding herself away. The burned out library had been closed off until funds could be found for its repair yet there was a secret entrance. Inside, the room had been cleared of burnt debris stone walls and floors were scorched.

Arwaya sat on a window seat, simply basking in the light that shone through where the glass had burst. Despite the smell and poor state of the room, it might be the brightest in the entire castle. Merry observed the light created a halo above her aunt's dark hair. The woman was often called the ugliest among the Frey women but she was merely the meekest, forever hunched and hiding behind her hair.

"Arwaya," she called softly so as not to startle the other woman too badly.

"Me-Merry," Arwaya glanced around the room anxiously like a frightened bird with broken wings. "Ya-you should be get-ting ready." This might be the longest exchange of words they have had, as the woman was afflicted with a pitiable stutter.

"I am," she moved to sit down next to the other woman. "There is something I want to give you." Merry held up the leather bound book to the other woman.

"Me?" The woman accepted the book while wearing an incredulous expression. It was no wonder her aunt would be surprised to be given a gift from a relative stranger. 

"I have not been happy here so I understand why our female kin dislike me." Merry still resented their resentment but would feel the same way in their place. Besides, she made the choice long ago to maintain a distance between herself and her family. A woman was not meant to be loyal to her kin because someday she would leave her home to join another family. "None of us should have to live like this... prisoners in our cramped spaces."

"You did-didn't hide," there might have been a hint of admiration in Arwaya's timid observation.

"It was not a choice really," she would die without some measure of freedom... Likely, by her own hand, something she considered both logically and sometimes spontaneously. "I am not meant to be kept hidden away, and neither are you." Merry opened the first page, inviting the other woman to see what no other eyes have witnessed. "This book contains my only source of power."

"W-why?" She tore her eyes away from the book, turning them up to give Merry a startled questioning look.

"You don't hurt others or even speak ill of them." A rare quality in any person, especially a Frey. "You are not in this book," she placed a hand on the open page and met Arwaya's nervous gaze. "I know what happened to you and who did it." Merry never wrote down anything that might cause an innocent pain. The most horrific events she learned of were seared into her memory and never needed a reminder. "Here is his page," the paper rustled as she turned the sheets. "See?"

"I bar-barely speak," Arwaya stared down at the sheet of paper with an expression of pure shock. Her eyes skimmed the entire page before looking up, gaze full of questions she likely could not voice.

"Now they will listen," Merry promised. The other woman seemed uncertain and perhaps was too benevolent to use these kinds of extortion against her family. "Or destroy it, if that is what you wish. I simply don't want these secrets anymore... they served me well but I am glad to give them up."

"Thank yo-you, Me-Merry," she hugged the book against her chest. Arwaya spent a lifetime perceived to be weak and that made her a target. With the help of Merry's secrets, this might give the woman a chance to take control of her own life.

"Goodbye and good luck, Arwaya." She put her hand on the other woman shoulder before standing up to leave.

"I w-wish," Arwaya's tongue tripped over the excited words, "you hap-happy-ness." Merry turned back to see a tight smile on her aunt's lips and tears shining in her eyes.

"I don't make wishes," she exhaled an unburdened sigh. "I plan to be very happy." With that last task completed, she made her way out of the library. Merry refused to let herself feel good about what she had just done... it was the very least she could do. The act of giving away those secrets was more to unburden herself than to help anyone else. Spine straight and head held high, she made her way to her chambers to prepare for the wedding.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/wedding/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173015045)

# Robb

'The King in the North!' His bannermen's cheers still echoed in Robb's head, calling him a king. Not just the Lord of Winterfell, not just Warden of the North, not even King of the North but 'King in The North'. They meant for him to lead their Houses, to create a kingdom separate from Westeros and free from Southron rule. What did southroners know of winter, or of the north? Robb never asked to be king but he could lead: he would lead.

"Robb," his mother curled her fingers around his elbow. A Frey man came to take them to the Sept and Robb was glad of his mother's comforting touch. As they make their way to the ceremony that would bond him to Merry for life, he knew he looked as nervous as he felt. His mother pretended not to notice, walking tall to give him the courage he needed to face his future. This day, he would not only take a wife but also a queen.

Inside the Sept, the Septon waited for him by the altar: Robb joined the man and stared impatiently at the door. When Merry entered on her father's arm, the few others in attendance faded into the background. She wore an unflattering green dress, a dull color against her pale skin and flaxen hair. He imagined her wearing a silk gown of pale blue to match her bright eyes. Robb silently promised he would fill her wardrobe with suitable dresses when the war was over.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," the Septon repeated the words to Robb with a sharp look. He hurried to unclasp his cloak but his fingers fumbled failing the task. Merry's graceful hands brushed his out of the way to easily unsnap the clasp. She did not hide her amused expression before she spun on her heel to receive his cloak. With more confidence, he draped his grey cloak around his bride's narrow shoulders.

"In the sight of the Seven," the Septon continued the ceremony after joining their hands with a ribbon. "I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity." Merry gasped and tightened her hold on his hand, bound to hers with the strip of fabric representing their newly forged union. "Look upon one another and say the words." 

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger." A light blush graced her cheeks yet Merry spoke with confidence while Robb struggled not to forget the order of the words. "I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days." He vowed to be a good husband he would do his best to love her. The ceremony was over before he realized the Septon was waiting expectantly for Robb to kiss his new wife. 

Her blush deepened as he lower his lips to brush them over hers: the first kiss of many to come. Light applause came from those gathered, as Robb stood straight again. Merry was smiling wide and he could not help grinning back at her, thinking the hard part was over. Then he remembered that tonight they would consummate this marriage and his heart starting racing again.

The feast was simple and it passed too quickly. Robb's mind was totally absorbed by the fact: this was his wedding night. Merry barely touched her food, a sign that she might be as nervous as him and that would be expected for a maid. He felt panicked about having a virgin because he was not very experienced, never liking whoring nearly as much as Theon. Grabbing his goblet, he took a long gulp to chase away his doubt.

"Bed them!" Someone called as the hour grew late, making Robb choke on his wine before glancing at his wife. Merry was looking down demurely but he found it easy to make out the slight downward curl of her lip, she did not wish it. She was his now and forever he would not see her shamed by the bedding ceremony. He also thought the bedding tradition was distasteful, as did his father.

"I can escort my own wife!" Robb stood as he spoke, daring anyone in the room to contradict him. Extending his arm wordlessly to his wife, she accepted with her face turned down but he noted her amused expression. They shared a smile as he led her from the hall, neither spoke a word as they made their way to the room. The silence was not exactly uncomfortable, only tinged with nervousness. 

"You may go," he dismissed the Frey man who escorted them. The man bowed slightly before turning to walk away and Robb smiled at his new wife. "My lady wife, do you mind if I carry you into the chamber, as is the northern custom?" It was a lie and the twinkle of mischief he saw in Merry's eye made him think she knew he pretended. She tilted her head and put one elegant finger to her sharp chin thoughtfully, feigning maidenly shyness.

"If that is my lord husband's custom, I must agree." Merry beamed as he pushed the door ajar, and laughed as he swept her slender form into his arms and kicked the door open. "This most certainly is a lovely tradition, my lord husband." Robb grinned like a smitten lad at her merry smile, surely the reason behind her short name. As king, he might have to make this an official custom of the Winterfell, or even the entire north.

"Merry, what is your full name?" He sat her on the bed, heating both of their cheeks with embarrassment and anticipation. Grateful for the task of shutting and barring the door to hide his nervousness, he awaited her answer.

"Merianne is my name, my lord." She sighed her proper name with a frown and he found it childishly charming that she disliked her name. "I prefer to be called Merry. Should I call you Robb or Robert?" 'Robert' was the Baratheon king, and Robb was his own man and would be his own king. He crossed the room to pour two goblets of wine then returned to his wife's side to hand her one.

"No one calls me Robert, except maybe inaccurate history book writers." Robb smirked as he spoke, still disbelieving that anyone would ever write his history. She took a small sip of the wine and seemed surprised by its quality. "Time will tell if I'm to be a footnote or a subject worth study. I pity the boys who will have to memorize my family's history, it is quite long." Merry laughed, not a falsely proper laugh but a true one.

"History is of great interest to me." She took a deep drink from her goblet the look of pleasure on her face caused Robb's heartbeat to quicken. "I have read about the legacy of the Starks of Winterfell, how they descended from the first men." He had expected no less, Merry's eyes shined with intelligence seen only in well-read people.

"My merry wife is clever indeed, I'm a lucky man." His wife finished her drink and handed him her cup with another shy smile. "Very lucky." Robb's voice had lowered and her pale blue eyes grew wide with some expression he could not place. She appeared nervous, that was expected, and there was something else: passion perhaps? He hoped so: her honest words about wanting a wedded night with him rang in his head.

"Robb..." Merry's voice was just as low as his own, though a bit tremulous. He set their cups on a side table and took his place beside her, attentive to her hesitant statement. "Robb, I want... I am ready," she whispered and held his gaze. "Please make me yours." 

"Merry," his hand smoothed over her cheek, gently cupping her face to hold her shy gaze on his. "I cannot promise that it won't hurt at first but I swear I won't do anything you don't want."

"I am not so afraid of consummating our marriage, I want to very much." At once, his blushing bride appeared the shyest maiden and bravest lady Robb had ever known. "Only I do not know how to please you and... I am not beautiful-"

"Says who?" Robb was unwilling to have this night clouded by doubts: all the better if other men did not look at his wife with lustful eyes. "Anyone who cannot see my wife's beauty is blind or a bloody fool!" Looking closely at her, seeing the pure and raw emotion in her expression, she was truly beautiful in his sight. Her fair coloring could be called ethereal in the low firelight turning her flaxen hair into strands of gold. 

"Thank you," she glanced away, making a small sound to clear her throat. His words were only honest but her eyes shimmered with tears as she smiled unsteadily. 

"I want this night to be a happy memory for you: for us." Tonight their marriage began in earnest and it had to start the right way. "Tell me whatever you want, that is how you can please me."

"I want you to hold me," she flushed again but held his gaze.

"Come here, wife." Robb held out his arms with a grin and she took hold of his shoulders and slid eagerly into his embrace. The satisfied grin on her face made him chuckle at her artless sincerity. "You like being held like this?"

"Yes," his wife's innocent blush contrasted with a most wickedly smug smile. "I like it very much." Forgetting his intention to move slowly, Robb wrapped his other arm around her narrow waist and pulled her body against his. She closed her eyes to accept his kiss as he guided her lips to his own. Never a seducer of maidens, he had kissed a few pretty girls, none of whom seemed dissatisfied. 

To his surprise, kissing his wife was an entirely new experience, feeling her inexpert lips relax and let him lead. Her lips opening to him was as intoxicating as the wine he could taste lingering on her tongue. Merry trembled as he continued kissing her and Robb was somewhat grateful it hid the slight shaking of his own hands. One thought lingered in his mind: she was untouched, never having known a man and never will know a man after him.

Tonight was only the beginning of a lifetime responsibility to keep his wife safe and happy, to respect her, and try his best to love her. Merry was breathing hard and he could feel her pulse pounding as he trailed his fingers down her throat. Their chests crushed together as she continued to kiss him, learning quickly. Her soft fingers cradled the back of his head and push into his hair, causing a soft groan to slip between his lips.

She pushed away and at first, he thought it was due to fear until he saw her razor sharp focus on the ties of his tunic. Her trembling fingers failed to unlace them but not from a lack of visible resolve. He felt equally determined: to give Merry a proper wedding night. Robb took her hands between his own and kissed her twitching fingers. Long, pale and graceful, the most beautiful hands he ever saw. 

Once this marriage was consummated, she would be his and only his: this night, every night after, from now to the end of their lives. His duty to her would come second only to his responsibilities to their House and the people under his command. That she belonged only to him made him feel more terrified and powerful than when he engaged in battle. When her shaking subsided, he let go of her hands, keeping his focus on her face.

Merry's expressiveness was honesty her most comely quality, pure unashamed lust lit up her features as he untied his tunic to remove it. Her eyes feasted on his body, unraveling his careful control. Surely, she noticed his manhood pressing into the backs of her thighs, yet she showed no fear. His wife fully trusted him to treat her honorably, the realization made his heart pound.

Robb watched as she lightly traced the lines of his chest, making his cock twitch underneath her in reaction. Merry's eyes widened in understanding, looking down as an expression of pure curiosity came over her face. Robb grinned, taking Merry by the waist and pushing her off his lap to sit beside him again. He stood up in front of her, making no move to hide his desire or remove his breeches.

He nodded at her questioning gaze: that was all she needed to move her steadied hands to unlace his trousers. Robb bit back a laugh at the look of surprise on her face when his manhood burst free of its restraint and pointed at Merry accusingly. Too many cups of wine at the feast likely explained the feeling that he was introducing his wife and his cock when she reached out a tentative hand.

"So soft," her voice brimmed with awed wonder as she used the same light exploration on his shaft as she had on his chest. His manhood pulsed and twitched but Robb held back from leaning into her curious touch. Robb closed his eyes and held every muscle in his body taunt as she traced him with her hands. Merry stroked the curve of his hip down over his dark curls and ran a palm over his hardness before circling it with one hand. 

A low moan escaped his lips and it only emboldened her further. Merry tugged on his hips, urging him to sit on the bed before she knelt before him to remove his boots. Her face only inches from his hardness, she did not shy away despite the blooming redness on her cheeks, and he thought she was a brave girl. Woman: his woman, his wife, kneeling before her husband. His anxious thundering heart might burst at this rate.

"Let me see you, wife." A king shouldn't plead, yet begging Merry to reveal her lithe form only seemed right. Without hesitation, she rose and swept her long hair over a shoulder to display the laces holding her garment on her slender torso. Eager as a green boy about to have his first girl, Robb moved deftly to untie the laces with practiced hands. One tug on the fabric sent the dress fluttering to the floor, displaying the narrow width of Merry's back.

Her skin was pale as fresh snow, nearly glowing in the light of the fire warming the room and she trembled despite the comfortable air. Merry seemed so fragile then, almost frail, Robb struggled with his lust: taking his time to remove his own breeches. Slowly, he reached up to circle her waist with his hands, trailing them down over her hips before turning her to face him. The pink flush in her cheeks spread over the white skin of her chest.

"Merry, let me have you." Robb was begging again: tonight he would not be a king, just a husband. 

"Yes," Merry's voice was breathless and quiet. "Take me... I am yours, husband." Not only Merry's fair skin was bare before him: Robb realized so was her heart. As she invited him into her body, so she opened her heart to him. His throat tightened, as he felt humbled by her trust and devotion.

"As you wish, wife." He held onto her wrist and moved back to sit on the bed, pulling her into his lap to enfold her in his arms again. She tightened her arms around his neck and drew his lips down to hers, no longer shy and inexperienced. Apparently a quick study, she ravished his lips with her own while pressing her body against his. He returned her kiss passionately, feeding off of the soft sounds of pleasure coming from Merry's throat. 

Unable to wait a moment longer Robb curled an arm under her knees and stood, lifting Merry in his arms as she clung to his shoulders. Turning towards the bed, he placed her in the center and paused a moment to admire the beauty only his eyes would ever see. She looked up at him expectantly, breathing in short quick pants. His manhood was almost painfully aroused by the sight of her slim thighs parting and his heart was touched by her faith in him.

He moved into the bed to hover over her and slipped his hand between their bodies to position himself, relieved to discover she was truly ready for him. Merry winced slightly as he sheathed the tip inside her but she did not cry. Robb tried to enter her slowly, stopping whenever she tensed, until he was able to hold her close again. They lay still and silent except for their labored breathing: hers pained and his restrained. 

Robb buried his face in her hair fanned over the pillow and focused on how she felt in his arms. Merry finally let go of the tension in her body and began to relax into his embrace. Her legs wound around his, the hard grip she had on his shoulders turned into a caress. As she relaxed, her hips tilted against his, allowing him to enter her fully. He pulled back, fearing he might still hurt her, but she locked her legs and arms around him.

Merry gasped and held tight onto his shoulders when he first withdrew then slowly slid all the way inside her again. By the next thrust she was writhing against him, attempting to match his pace. Robb loosened his hold on her to use one hand to cup her soft breast. She moaned softly in his ear and ached herself against his hand, sliding her legs up around his hips to take him deeper. 

Merry responded to every thrust of his hips, every touch of his hand, and still moaned for more. Robb never considered the possibility of his maiden wife ravishing him. Whatever she lacked in experience was more than made up by her unabashed enthusiasm. She grasped his waist, digging her fingers into his flexing muscles, urging him let go of any lingering restraint. He almost did, nearly gave into his lust, and forgot his promise to be a good husband.

He was already close to reaching his own release so he slowed his thrusts and pulled up onto his forearm to gaze down at his wife's face. Her eyelashes flickered and short panting moans escaped between her trembling lips. Merry near glowed in the firelight, flushed pink from her widow's peak to the tops of her breasts and covered with a light sheen of sweat. Robb slipped a hand between them, finding the flesh of her womanhood slick and hot.

Her hips bucked at the first touch but she soon found her own rhythm against his fingers. Robb squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Winterfell: the snow falling on top of the dark stone battlements. Merry cried out, hooked her legs behind his thighs to draw him deeper, and dug her fingernails into his hips. She cried out passionately when he gripped her hips, driving into her until his own release surged from his body into hers.

Robb collapsed on top of his wife, but then worried he was crushing her so he started to pull away. Merry whimpered and clung to his neck so he stayed, resting his racing heart as her fingers caressing his neck lull him to sleep. Wedded and bedded, he was no longer just a man, a lord, or a king but also a husband. His last thought was clear despite the weary haze of his mind: she is mine.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/might_be_good_day/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173832951)

# Sandor

The king's nameday started out fairly well since the boy was in a good mood - for him anyway. The sun shone high in the sky over the courtyard where Joff set himself up a small tourney. The little bird was watching too, along with the young princess and prince. Might be today would be a good day, or at least not complete shit. Last night Lady Sansa's screams still haunted his dreams and disturbed his sleep

Still, Ser - whatever his name was - died the moment he was matched against the hound. What Joff wants is blood and a good show of it. Better that an unnamed Ser fell to his death than the little bird bear the brunt of the king's bloodlust. Sandor saw it all in his head before he brought his mace down over his opponent's face. The crunch of the knight's head when it hit the stone was satisfying - just being honest. It was a good death, quick yet gruesome. 

"Well struck, dog!" Joff ran like a gleeful child to admire the carnage, calling back to the little bird. She didn't seem in the mood for singing then - nearly undoing his effort to appease Joff. "Who's next?!"

"Lothor Brune, freerider in the service of Lord Baelish," the announcer called out. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard." Sandor handed off his helmet to a nearby page after accepting a cup of water. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!"

"Here I am," a portly man bumbled into the courtyard, "here I am!" The foolish knight's helmet fumbled out of his hands and bounced off the ground. Sandor rolled his eyes and thrust his emptied cup into the hands of another boy before making his way to stand behind the king. Joffrey was speaking to the blundering knight in a familiar mocking tone.

"Are you sure, Your Grace?" This knight truly was a fool to believe Joffrey would show anyone any kindness. Whatever the king offered, the man should refuse and get out of Joff's sight as quick as he could.

"Yes," the pitch of the king's voice reminded Sandor of the queen and made his skin crawl. "To celebrate my name day. Have two - have as much as you like."

"I would be honored, Your Grace." The idiot bowed, wearing a smile on his face - not realizing he likely just agreed to his own execution. Sandor didn't feel a jot of pity for the buggering fool, as long as the little bird wasn't Joff's target. He didn't know if he could stand still the next time the girl screamed. Then he'd be the one facing the king's wrath instead of some foolish 'knight'.

"Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day." The king retook his seat with a gleeful smile on his face. "See that he drinks his fill." Rolling his eyes, Sandor hoped his match earlier had satisfied Joff's bloodlust for the day but it only continued to grow. Meryn approached the smiling idiot and grabbed him by the front of his breastplate. Only then did the bloody simpleton realize what was about to happen.

Another Kingsguard came to the foolish knight's side and forced him to kneel on the ground as concerned murmurs rose from the gather crowd. Fucking cowards, not one of them would speak up on the knight's behalf. One man stuck a horn into the knight's mouth while Meryn lifted a wine cask to pour into the horn. A drunk couldn't ask for a better death - Sandor could think of worse ways to go. 

"You can't!" The little bird forgot her place for a moment, daring to contradict her king and riling the boy's ire. There goes all the effort Sandor made to keep Joff satisfied. If the lady couldn't see how the hound's actions protect her - the least she could do is not risk herself for a drunken fool! 

"What did you say?" A hush settled over the courtyard as Joffrey turned his attention onto Lady Sansa. "Did you say I can't?" Each and every day Joff more resembled Gregor - at least not in size. Kingship broke whatever restraint the boy had over his own cruelty and the little bird became his favorite plaything. The girl should've kept her fucking mouth shut!

"I only meant," her wide innocent eyes stared at the irritated king. Sandor's gut tightened, hoping she had her wits about her this time. "It would be bad luck to kill a man on your nameday."

"What kind of stupid peasant's superstition-"

"The girl is right," he found himself saying. "What a man sows on his nameday, he reaps all year." Lies sounded unnatural from his lips, unused to speaking falsehoods. He bloody well knew why he picked now to start - he'd done it to protect her, not that the lady appreciated his efforts. After a tense moment, Joff seemed pacified by the lie, letting out an irritated huff. 

"Take him away!" The boy was obviously annoyed, always wanting to inflict more pain - same as Gregor. The Kingsguard released the knight, who promptly emptied his stomach on the courtyard ground. "I'll have him killed tomorrow, the fool."

"He is," she said with a - breathtaking but forced - smile. "A fool, you're so clever to see it." Good girl, that's how little birds should chirp. "He'll make a much better fool than a knight... he doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death." A newly familiar feeling was welling in his chest - pride. He never felt it in himself, a good dog follows orders, and never for any other fucker either - except maybe for his horse. 

"Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos?" Joff gloated as the knight rose to stand on shaky legs. "From this day, you'll be my new fool." The king was amused and the girl saved Dontos, risking herself to defy Joffrey but handling him perfectly. Well done, little bird. Sandor allowed himself just a peek at the girl and nearly thanked the buggering gods when he did. Her pretty face turned downward but on her perfect lips curled a true smile.

"Thank you, Your Grace." The knight slurred his words, bowing slightly as he thanked his king for not drowning him with wine. The man was a true fool - the girl didn't have to lie about that - blathering his thanks to the wrong fucking person. "And you, my lady, thank you." Dontos had enough sense to thank the little bird with some sincerity - his life wasn't worth even a single bruise on her skin. 

Sandor memorized the fool's face, in case his grace remembered this day unfondly later. The little bird sang the right song this time, she best remember that tune if she wanted to survive. Joff seemed pleased enough with the girl's chirping but she would have to try harder to hide that flicker of hatred. It was worth it to see her real smile for once - she was pleased with herself. 

The lady should enjoy her small triumph but was still was blind to King Joffrey's lust for violence. All things considered she had done well, might be she was strong enough to survive with a bit of help. Could be today was a good day, Sandor killed a man and the little bird saved one - and smiled. 

"Beloved nephew!" A voice called out, ruining Sandor's rare good mood - the imp. Arrogant as ever, Lord Tyrion Lannister hobbled confidently toward his nephew - wearing armor. "We looked for you on the battlefield. You were nowhere to be found." Sandor sneered at the idea of the imp seeing any battles - that armor looked new. Joff looked equally displeased by his uncle's return.

"I've been here - ruling the kingdoms." The king could tell a good jape now and then, Sandor held back a snort. That brat reigning over anything but his own arse was too fucking funny. Almost as hilarious as picturing the imp swinging a sword on the battlefield. Sandor noticed the lord's smirk - that little fuck was thinking the same bloody thing as him! Having any thought in common with Lord Tyrion Lannister made him want to spit. 

"What a fine job you've done." The imp's mocking tone was going to get him in trouble - he wasn't here when Joff had Ned Stark's head removed. Personally, Sandor would like to see the half-man's head separated from his stunted body. The king opened his mouth to berate his uncle but had already lost the man's attention. "Look at you," the imp gushed over the little princess Myrcella. "More beautiful than ever."

"And you!" The lord addressed his younger nephew, gesturing at the boy. "You're going to be bigger than the hound, but much better looking." The imp can't come within Sandor's earshot without calling him ugly. That's why Sandor hated Tyrion - bastard had an irritating ability to look down on someone three times his size. He glared daggers at the little man and imagined all the ways he could kill him. Lord Tyrion peered up at him with a mock frown. "This one doesn't like me."

"Can't imagine why." The swarthy sellsword who swaggered in behind the imp felt the need to add his own japes as well. Bugger these fools, he didn't give a shit what they said - but the little bird heard it all. Fuck it - she knew he was ugly, that was never going to change. The silly fool was probably already lost in her own dreams, not paying attention to what went on around her - least of all the hound.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/to_save_life/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173834382)

# Sansa

"We heard you were dead." Joffrey sounded disappointed that the rumors of Lord Tyrion's death were false. There was no love between Joffrey and Lord Tyrion, though that was not a surprise. The little man approached, looking more than ridiculous in his tiny suit of armor. Sansa might have even found his appearance funny if the imp was not yet another Lannister wearing a mocking smile.

"I'm glad you're not dead!" Myrcella was a sweet girl but, so ignorant of her family's treachery and malice, much like Sansa used to be. She pitied and envied the girl who was simply happy to have her beloved uncle back safe from the battlefront. Robb was the one fighting the girl's family, risking his life to save his sister. Sansa was not even slightly horrified that she wished the imp dead and her brother arrived instead to rescue her.

"Me too, dear." Lord Tyrion's voice held affection for his niece, so different from the mocking tone he used with his eldest nephew. "Death is so boring, especially now with so much excitement in the world!" 'Excitement' was not the word Sansa would use to describe the death and horror of war. Why did adults glorify war to their children? Even if Lord Tyrion were not a Lannister, she would still hate him.

"My lady," the little man addressed Sansa with a softer tone and her blood ran cold when. "I'm sorry for your loss." How dare he offer his condolences to her? His family was responsible for the death of her father! Sansa seethed with rage, only barely managing not to rake her nails down the imp's ugly face. She was not the only one annoyed by the lord's words, the king scoffed loudly at his uncle.

"Her loss? Her father was a confessed traitor." Joffrey sneered and shot her a nasty look before scowling at his uncle. The imp mocked her while directing Joffrey's anger towards her! Her rising anger and panic made it difficult to keep breathing normally. She wanted to attack them both and rip out each golden hair from every Lannister's head. 'Give him what he wants'. Joffrey seemed to want his uncle's demise.

"But still her father." Why did Lord Tyrion keep talking about him? Sansa bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a sob and instead widened her smile painfully. Having to spend all day with Joffrey, 'celebrating' his nameday when she wished he were never born, was exhausting. Watching him order the death of another man, even one so unlike her father as Ser Dontos, was unbearable. She had been happy when she stopped him.

"Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father you can sympathize." The imp's admonishments were meaningless. Robert Baratheon wasn't half the man her father was and Joffrey was incapable of sympathy, even fixing an icy stare at her. As if, it was her fault that the imp used her to scold his nephew! 'Give him what he wants'. If she misspoke, saying the wrong thing could get her killed.

"My father was a traitor!" At Sansa's angry outburst, Lord Tyrion and King Joffrey's green eyes both widened in shock. In her best imitation of Queen Cersei, she turned to the wide-eyed boy next to her and smiled coyly. "My dear King Joffrey..." His emerald eyes narrowed in suspicion, thankfully not anger. "Is your uncle also a half-wit as well as a half-man?" 

"It's possible," Joffrey smirked at her spiteful comment.

"Lord Tyrion," she glared at the imp, her words dripping with disdain. "I never want to hear about my traitorous father, brother, or mother again." Sansa's heart fluttered, it was a risk to speak so out of turn and potentially make an enemy of Lord Tyrion. The imp could never scare her half as much as her betrothed did. "I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey." She smiled again at her 'beloved', relieved by the amused half-smile on his face.

"O-of course you are," the lord imp stuttered as he turned away from Sansa, seeming ashamed. She did not feel guilty one bit, vowing never to waste an ounce of pity on a Lannister. Joffrey's smiled gleefully at the man's obvious embarrassment as he narrowed his eyes on his uncle. "Well, enjoy your nameday, Your Grace. Wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done." The imp abruptly turned to leave and Sansa was glad to see the back of him.

"Running away because my lady hurt your little feelings?" Joffrey called after his uncle's retreating form and Sansa rolled her eyes when he could not see. "Wait, what 'work' - why are you here?!" Lord Tyrion ignored his king, refusing to respond to the call he clearly could hear. Joffrey turned back in his chair with a huff and focused on Sansa. "That was quite funny, my lady, usually you are so boring." With a dismissive nod, he turned to signal the start of the next match.

"Thank you, Your Grace," her gratitude was emptier than his praise but he did not notice. Sansa thought better of attempting to converse with him again, not when his uncle so recently annoyed him. It proved a near impossible a task, hiding the hatred that burned in her heart for Joffrey while pretending to love him. Her lies were necessary to ensure her survival so she could not foolishly risk herself again.

Without realizing it, Sansa had cried out to stop Ser Dontos' torture. That kindness nearly made herself the target of Joffrey's wrath. Until the hound lied for her... she fought the urge to slide her gaze to the imposing man who invaded her thoughts. She could not understand his reason for helping her when he acted as though she disgusted him. Other men's eyes admired her while the hound's gaze remained impassive or hateful.

Of course, she did not wish for him to look at her... his perplexing nature was simply frustrating. Inappropriate as his words have been, he never took advantage of her or hurt her. The hound often treated her contemptuously and talked down to her, other times his manner was far too familiar. She knew it was childish, wondering about the hound when he likely did not even notice her sitting there.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/nameday_gift/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173824870)

# Joffrey

"Did you hear my lady earlier - calling my uncle a 'half-wit half-man'?" Joff admired his new crossbow, gleaming in the candlelight as he experimentally pulled at the bowstring to make a low sound. He ran his fingers over the stock, feeling the dyed red leather and metal studs lining the length. "The shock on his face, you would think he was struck by lightning! And then she looked like she wanted to murder the ugly little fool." 

"Huh," the hound just grunted a noncommittal sound as usual.

"Of course she did," he grinned as he traced the ordinate gold overlay shaped into lions. "A lady as beautiful as she should not be forced to breathe the same air as that malformed monkey man." Joff glanced up at the quiet man looming in the corner of his chamber and rolled his eyes at the hound's sullen expression. "I make an exception for you, dog, the lady simply avoids looking at you." Clegane nodded, and stared straight ahead as if he was blind.

"I think she looked even prettier angry - the way her eyes glittered with loathing." Joff tried to cock back the string but he had to use quite a bit more force than he thought, rising to his feet to get it back with a satisfied grin. The hound stared impassively, seemingly unaware his king stood right in front of him. "I did not know she harbored such strong feelings against my uncle. Perhaps I misjudged her when I thought her stupid. What do you think, hound?"

"I don't know the lady well enough to judge." The hound had only enough courtesy to look at his king while he spoke, then turned and stared at the wall again.

"Come off it!" Joff dropped back down on the chaise with a huff and rolled his eyes at his dog. "I know you hate my uncle as much as I do - you must have thought some part of what she said was funny." He raised his eyebrows, looking the man up and down with a mocking sneer. "Are you even capable of laughing? I cannot recall."

"It was funny," Clegane admitted with a shrug, only the very corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk. "Had to bite my tongue not to laugh aloud." Though the hound tried to be nonchalant, Joff knew the man was amused - a feat he thought unachievable until this moment.

"I knew it!" Joff grinned at the hound, even after the man resumed his bored expression. "My lady has accomplished the impossible - I guess she is not completely useless. And she really did look pretty today - she will give me fine sons." A lingering worry crept into his mind and he decided to put his doubts to rest once and for all. "Hound? How - how is fucking done?"

"Your Grace," the dumbfounded stare on Clegane's face made Joff tense with unease. Kings should be able to ask whatever they please of whomever they wish! 

"I mean," he hurriedly set down the crossbow and rose to his full height. "I know - I think." Joff put his hand behind his back and started pacing his room. "Just," he frowned, "Maester Pycelle was evasive, and I can't ask mother." He paused strolling across his chamber and put a hand to his forehead when a memory arose that he wished to forget. "Father told me to find a whore and get her to teach me."

"Why didn't you go and do that then?" Clegane resumed his impassive posture, voice low and emotionless. Joff expected that most men would tell him to go find a whore. Somehow, he hoped the hound would have something more profound to say. His expectations of a lowly dog were too high. A loyal guard cannot impart wisdom or advice about anything other than guarding.

"I don't want a dirty painted whore," he sneered with disgust, "getting their filth and disease all over me." Joff did not care if anyone thought less of him for not fucking whores - he was the King and they had no right to judge him. Clegane did not argue and instead relaxed his position and approached a step, looking his King straight in the eye. 

"Look," the hound sighed loudly - as if he had something better to do with his time. "There's nothing to fucking - a cock goes in a cunt." Clegane shrugged, addressing the act with nonchalant confidence as though discussing a battle plan. "You'll know what to do once you get that far." It was better than nothing, but far below what Joff hoped to hear.

"That'll be all, dog," Joff waved his hand in dismissal, "get out." Another Kingsguard would have said 'goodnight, Your Grace' before they left. The hound cared nothing for pleasantries and Joff didn't care much either. Perhaps his dog was right and there was nothing to be nervous about his wedding night. Who would say anything if he did something wrong? Lady Sansa would never speak out of turn against him - she was too afraid.

Maybe not quite afraid enough. Today she surprised and amused him with her actions but he never expected bravery from her. Joff eyed his crossbow, walking towards it and picking it up as a new fantasy flitted through his mind. How prettily would her lips quiver if he pointed his new toy at Lady Sansa?

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/peelin_potatoes/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173823931)

# Gendry

Yoren gave him a rest from tending the carts and making repairs to various tools: at least peeling potatoes he could sit on his arse for a while. Arry sat next to him on a fallen log while Hot Pie and Lommy crouched nearby. She put all of them to shame, peeling twice what he could and three times more than the other boys. Lommy's knife slipped out of his hand and stabbed into the ground: right next to Arry's foot.

"Hey, watch it!" Arry turned to glare at Lommy for nearly stabbing her in the toe.

"You know I'm sorry, lumpyhead." The golden-haired boy grinned at her as he retrieved his peeling knife, not looking apologetic in the least.

"Stop callin' him that," Gendry added his own dirty look to Arry's angry stare.

"He can say for himself if he doesn't like it," Lommy sneered at Gendry.

"I don't like it," Gendry wasn't about to back down from a little brat like Lommy. Lately the lad had been getting on his nerves, coming around and bothering Arry. She didn't seem to like the boy so why did she put up with him?

"I can say for myself," Arry turned her scowl on him before snapping at Lommy. "And I don't like it one bit."

"I'll stop then," Lommy agreed with a smile. Then he got up and moved behind Arry before arranging himself between her and Gendry. The lad's arm bumped Gendry's elbow and knocked the potato out of his hand.

"Clumsy brat," Gendry muttered at the bumbling fool, retrieving his fallen potato.

"You take up too much space," Lommy stuck his tongue out at Gendry before turning a smile on Arry. "Show me how you're doing that, Arry."

"It's easy, just like so." Arry demonstrated her deft skill with the knife, twisting the potato around and using just the edge to remove the skin.

"You're really good at this," Lommy praised, "probably because your hands are so small." It's because she works instead of always trying to get out of work. She put every boy in the group to shame, even being the smallest and weakest among them. The only person who worked harder than her was him. Gendry ignored them, turning away to keep peeling and tossing potatoes in a nearby basket.

"It's easy, just practice." Arry jerked her chin at the potato in the boy's hand, urging him to get busy and stop messing about.

"I don't mind peelin' potatoes if I get to eat them after." Hot Pie smiled cheerily at all three of them, to dimwitted to see the tension.

"I know they'll make stew," Lommy sighed, "but I wish we could mash them with butter." They didn't have any fucking butter and would likely never have any again.

"I'll save one for you to roast and mash it yourself if you'd like," Arry offered to Lommy. It was a nice offer and Gendry shouldn't have any reason to be upset over it. He wasn't the least bit troubled: there was nothing to be unhappy about.

"That's swell of you, Arry." Lommy smiled again at her: strange that the lad never looked at anyone else that way. The boy was all sneers and smirks but lately he beamed at her like a lovesick maiden. Gendry heart started racing as he tried to stop the knife in his hand from shaking from sudden panic. Bloody hells, he knows Arry is a girl! Of course he noticed, only a complete fool would mistake her for a boy.

"I'll be right back," Arry stood up, wiping her hands on her tunic.

"Where're you going?" Gendry caught her wrist just as she was turning around towards the forest.

"I need to make water," she grumbled and yanked out of his grasp.

"I'll come with you," Lommy stood up as well, "in case any wolves are nearby."

"You best stay here." Gendry jumped up into Lommy's path, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at the boy. "In case Yoren comes by, both of you gone looks bad."

"You can't tell me what to do," he raised his chin higher to pretend like he wasn't intimidated.

"He's right Lommy," Arry gave the golden haired boy a sharp look.

"Alright," Lommy smiled cheerfully at Arry, "I'll go when you come back." The boy retook his seat on the log, shocking Gendry that he gave up so easily. She heaved a sigh and headed off into the woods to go do what she needed to do. "There's something about Arry," he sighed with a smile on his face. "I don't know why but I like him." Relief flooded Gendry's entire body because the lad wasn't that good of a liar: he really didn't know. 

"He's got a sword," Hot Pie offered a simple explanation.

"Maybe because when I first saw him I thought he was weak but he's actually strong." Lommy's voice was soft and a little smile tugged at his lips. Gendry wouldn't believe it if he didn't see it himself: the boy's too stupid to realize that he fancies Arry! That thought had him sniggering under his breath and Lommy turned to glower in his direction. "What're ye laughin' at, bull?"

"Nothing much," Gendry handed over his knife and stood up. "I have to get back to work." He headed out into the woods after Arry, leaning against a tree close to camp and making sure to keep his distance. A rustling of leaves signaled her approach and he walked out into the open. She jumped back a bit when she first noticed him and then puffed a sigh of relief.

"Gendry," she narrowed her eyes and looked around, "are you following me?"

"I'm making sure you didn't wander too far," and making sure no one else followed her. Maybe Lommy wasn't bright enough to figure out she's a girl but some of the men could be sharper. Honestly, he still couldn't believe he was the only one who realized. Yoren might know but he didn't treat her different from any of the boys.

"At least you're not Lommy, he's acting strange." She started walking back towards camp and he fell into step next to her. "Don't you think?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, "but he doesn't know why."

"What does that mean?" Arry looked up at him, her dark eyes wide with curiosity and her mouth just slightly pursed. Gendry couldn't blame Lommy one bit for being so confused by her. She's too pretty to be a boy and she's unlike anyone he ever met. 

"Back to work with you," he took her by the shoulders and steered her towards the camp. "Those potatoes won't peel themselves." Agile as a cat she twisted free of his grasp and stepped back away from him. She didn't look angry but he couldn't tell what her expression meant. "What, don't like to be touched?"

"I don't," but she said it almost like a question and that confused him even more. Gendry watched as Arry turned to stomp off towards the camp in a huff. Why did she get angry with him so often for no reason? He didn't expect to get an answer to that question anytime soon. What did he know of girls and their temperaments? Since he met Arry, he realized he knew nothing about girls and everything he thought he knew was dead wrong.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/tend_fire/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=173831335)

# Arya

They stayed awake while everyone slept - actually, Gendry was on duty tending the fire but she wanted to keep him company. He seemed fine this afternoon, waiting for her in the woods, though he would've scared the piss out of her if she hadn't just releived herself. But he still didn't treat her like a girl so he must not suspect her. Then why was he so quiet tonight, not talking and just minding the fire?

"You don't like Lommy very much," she poked a skinny stick into the fire. The bottom logs crumbled into ash and smoke plumed up over the blaze.

"Do you?" He tossed another piece of firewood into the flames and sat back to face her. The light cast shadows on his face and made him look older or maybe just more tired.

"Not really," she turned towards him, "but there's nobody to talk to and it's boring." Gendry didn't say anything, just stared at her for a while before looking at the fire.

"I don't trust him," he finally said.

"He's a thief - it'd be stupid to trust him." That seemed obvious to her but he just shook his head and kept quiet. They had spent enough time together by now for her to know he gets quiet when something is bothering him. Jon acted the same way, not wanting to burden others with his problems. "What's wrong with you?"

"Bugger Lommy," he suddenly grinned at her. "I don't want to talk about him." 

"You pick something then," she tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Arya was grateful that he was willing to talk to her but she always had to start the conversation. She found herself going on and on, revealing too much while he hardly spoke about himself. Except for knowing he's a blacksmith's apprentice, a bastard, and likes eggs - everything else about him was a complete mystery.

"If I had a forge," he couldn't be more predictable - of course, the blacksmith wants to talk about blacksmithing. "What would you like me to make for you?" Arya knew he would never be able to forge something for her because he would be dedicating his life to the Nights Watch. They couldn't spare materials so a little highborn lady could play at wearing armor. She wanted to go home so badly but part of her wished she really were going to the wall.

"A helmet," she liked his and wanted one similar. "Shaped like a wolf's head." Every wildling would fear Arya the Wolf, fighting beside her brother Jon as a Ranger. Arry could join the Nights Watch to serve and protect the kingdom - Lady Arya Stark cannot.

"I could do that," he cocked his head to the side, seemingly thinking about the process. If she went to the wall, she could learn blacksmithing from Gendry and even forge her own weapons. When she got home to Winterfell, Arya would wait around to learn what lord she should marry. "Why a wolf?"

"Because wolves are fierce predators that are even stronger in a pack." She straightened her spine and refused to keep feeling sorry for herself. Robb loved her, he would stand up against mother, and help Arya avoid an engagement. They would stay together as a family and not lose anyone else. "Why'd you pick a bull?"

"Everyone knows not to rile a bull, even when he looks calm and tame." Gendry's eyes looked so intense that she forgot to breathe for a moment. "They know a bull will fight if provoked."

"I've never seen you angry, not really." Some strange part of her actually wanted to see it - him lose that careful control. Gendry never backed down from anyone but he never got into a tussle either. Whether a boy or man gave him lip, the bull only stared them down. His muscled frame might be the reason no one ever sought a fight but perhaps it was that look in his eye.

"I hope you never do," he turned back to the fire and fell quiet again.

"I suppose," she started hesitantly, "being a southroner, you've not heard many northern stories."

"Never heard many southern stories neither," he continued to stare into the fire.

"They say," she turned her body to face him. "Beyond the wall there's giants - men tall as these trees and stronger than you can imagine."

"People say a lot of things but most of it's not true." Gendry still refused to look at her and it took every scrap of her patience to hold her temper.

"I think it could be true," she scooted a little closer to him. "I saw giant wolves in the north. Why not giant men?"

"There'd have to be giant women too," he added, "or there'd be no giant men." Arya had to suppress a sigh of relief that he was finally talking to her again. Keeping up with his moods was more work than all the chores Yoren gave her.

"Never thought about that." She racked her brain for any stories Nan might have told her about. "I wonder why I never heard any legends about women giants. Maybe they're dying out because there's no women of their kind."

"Then how were they born?" Gendry turned to face her, his expression seemed annoyed but at least he still paid attention to her.

"Maybe giants aren't born," she mused aloud.

"Is there a point to this?" He turned his back to her, reaching to the pile of logs to grab another and added it to the fire.

"Does there have to be a point?" She bristled at his uncalled for irritation. "I was trying to-" Arya cut herself off, refusing to try and cheer him up if he didn't want to be cheered. "Never mind," she braced a hand against the ground and was about to stand up.

"That's a first," he scoffed. "Arry holding yer tongue: didn't think it was possible."

"I thought you needed cheering up," she snapped. "Guess you want to stew in whatever's bothering you. That's just fine with me!"

"I don't," his voice was soft, "but I can't talk about it." Those words were the only reason why Arya didn't get up and storm off. She was in the same position, wanting to talk about her family and what happened to her father but not able to. So, even Gendry has problems like that.

"When I get angry or bored I like talking to you because it distracts me." She tried her best to keep her voice soft and comforting. "Try it," she waved a hand at herself an invitation.

"You want me to pester you with questions?" He gave her a skeptical look but there was a smile tugging on his lips. "You won't laugh if my questions are stupid?"

"Depends on how stupid," she did not intend to make any promises she might not be able to keep. "I am willing to be pestered. And I know everything about the north - that's where you're headed." Gendry regarded her for a moment before nodding his head. They spent the rest of the night in front of that fire, him asking mostly stupid questions and her trying not to laugh at them.

When one of the men came to relieve them, it almost seemed too soon. They retrieved their bedrolls and laid them out next to each other as usual. Gendry fell asleep as soon as his head hit the bedroll but Arya's mind was still thinking. She sent a quick prayer to the old gods, thanking them for sending her a friend even though he could be difficult at times. At least, if she didn't have the bull - Hot Pie and Lommy would be her only company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'The North Remembers' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> If I ever mention wanting to move again - someone remind me that I NEVER want to move again. Even if someone just hands me a million dollars and I could buy my dream house: nope. Never. Moving. Again. 
> 
> I was gonna post this chapter sooner but I got a bunch of ladyfinger bananas and I had to make cookies...
> 
> LIKE A BOSS!
> 
>   
> 
> 
> It seemed so logical... too logical. ≖_≖  
> Maybe the ladyfingers are part of a larger conspirocy to keep me from posting chapters.  
> *Will investigate.* 


	4. Decisions, Decisions

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/forget/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=174506170)

# Sandor

He needed a woman and that's the end of it - it'd been too bloody long since he last had one - what was coin for anyway? Sandor spent the last few nights getting drunk as a dog and hunting the Red Keep for the little bird. What the fuck were his brains for? Oh right, he'd taken up waiting outside her chambers to keep her safe - horseshit! He wanted her, wanted to take her - have her - and keep her all for himself.  
  
Sandor liked his head, ugly as it was, squarely attached to his shoulders. So he'd find a whore and fuck her until he didn't want any woman for a good long while. He hated this part - he threw back the last of his wine and scanned the whorehouse. They were always careful, the whores, to never catch his eye - he always had to call out to them. They made him act like he was buggering begging for it instead of paying proper.  
  
Was it really that bloody difficult to look at his face? Were there mirrors in his room? This is why people hate him - too bloody honest. Sandor knew he was stalling, getting drunker with each cup and would probably pass out before selecting a whore. How should he pick one when he didn't want any of them and none wanted him? Should he choose an ugly whore so she won't be uppity? Should he pick a pretty one, with pale skin and red hair-?  
  
What in the seven hells was wrong with him?! Some farce of a fuck would drive him to madness! Either he'd waste all his coin whoring or end up wanting the little bird even more. He lifted his cup to his lips before remembering he'd already drained it and dropped it onto the table. Running his hand over his ruined face, Sandor wondered exactly how he got into this mess.  
  
He thought the days of his blood running hot were long over. He was old, damn it! His bones creaked in the morning and his body didn't tolerate wine the way it used to. Before the little bird, he thought his desire for women had died with his youth. Yet his cock jumped to attention whenever he caught just a whiff of her. How did one silly maiden manage to get his blood up like a green boy seeing his first set of teats? Stop - fucking thinking - about her.  
  
"More wine!" Sandor hadn't meant to roar the words, but that's what happened. The din in the whorehouse settled uncomfortably, most of the patrons only just noticing the hound in their midst. He hadn't wanted to call attention to himself, sitting in a dark corner alone and ignoring the customers and whores alike. His outburst had every eye in the place turn towards him. He just fucking adored being the center of attention.  
  
"I'll pay for that drink." Alton Lannister was sitting at a table nearby with Arys Oakheart, raising his cup towards Sandor with a drunken grin. The boy had grown, a few years back he'd been a regular playmate to Joff until he was sent off to squire for some knight. He tossed a coin at the serving wench who smiled at Alton before filling Sandor's cup - careful to avoid the hound's eyes.  
  
"I've my own coin," he grumbled, annoyed with the attention, sneering at the wench until she scampered away. Why would this boy buy him a drink when he doesn't remember ever talking to him? Alton only grinned wider at his words, obviously drunk off his arse without a care in the world. Sandor envied him that.  
  
"I'm sure you do," Alton slurred his words happily. "Only the High Counsel is sending me off to negotiate with Robb Stark. They paid me well and I'm feeling generous." So that was it - Alton Lannister was feeling his own mortality. If the young wolf were smart, he would gut every Lannister he saw until they were all gone. Sandor only grunted in response and ignored the boy.  
  
"Pay no attention to him." Ser Arys Oakheart always had an easy smile on his handsome face - made Sandor want to punch his perfect teeth out. "The hound loves being miserable." Sandor wouldn't say he 'loved' it, only didn't have any reason not to be. Life is misery - well maybe not for nice-looking men like Oakheart and Alton Lannister.  
  
"Fuck you, Oakheart." Sandor was in no mood for the knight's half-hearted comradery - why pretend they liked each other? Oakheart threw his pretty head back and laughed uproariously, joined by his young friend.  
  
"You're not my type, hound." Oakheart chuckled at Sandor's scowl before turning to his companion and hooking an arm around his neck. "Not with this pretty young blonde sitting right here!" Alton shoved his friend off, somehow finding his flirtation amusing.  
  
"Ser Arys!" The young Lannister put a hand over his heart and assumed an expression of mock horror. "You besmirch my honor!" Alton's high pitch was meant to imitate a woman's voice - poorly.  
  
"Cut it out, you fucking pillow biters!" Meryn Trant took the words right out of his mouth - only then Sandor didn't care much for them anymore so the fool could have them. "Have a whore and stop drooling over each other." The man was insufferable, Trant made the hound look bloody jolly. Who was that toad to tell anyone what to do? Might be the hound tells you what he wants to do to a girl-beating coward - one guess.  
  
"Who the fuck is guarding the king?" Sandor asked the question a loud without realizing it but wanted an answer anyway. Looking around the whorehouse it seemed as though the entire Kingsguard was here. For some reason, Oakheart thought his words were hilarious but he didn't glare at the fool because Trant already was. Fuck Trant - fuck his fucking face. He should just kill him.  
  
"Our king," Oakheart spoke of his grace with all the respect due a roast chicken. "Long may be reign, tucked in early and Ser Blount is guarding his chambers." Boros Blount? Why did Sandor always forget that man? He didn't hate him - just failed to remember he existed. Probably wasn't Blount's fault, as people from the Crownlands never had personalities. This place sucked out everything that made people decent and interesting.  
  
"Speaking of kings," Alton leaned conspiratorially towards Oakheart but spoke loudly. "I delivered Robb Stark's peace terms to the Small Council and Queen Cersei ripped it to pieces." He paused to guzzle his wine as his mate giggled like a drunken little girl. The boy gave a satisfied sigh as he drained his cup. "Gods that woman scares me in a good way. See any whores who look like her?"   
  
"She's not so tough," Trant predictably interjected negativity into his companions' conversation. Both men rolled their eyes, but of course, the toad didn't notice. "She just puts on a good act so most fools actually think she ordered the bastard massacre in Flea Bottom." Trant better watch his tongue if he wants to keep it.  
  
"I'm more afraid of Ser Jaime," Oakheart tried to revive the good-natured fun Trant was desperate to kill. "Or else I would have already had her on her back!" The wench approached to refill their glasses, squealing when the knight pulled her into his lap. They both laughed obnoxiously as she swatted at his hands and jumped up. He gave her a firm slap on the arse as she sashayed away.  
  
"If anyone could thaw that ice queen, it'd be you, Arys." Alton gazed adoringly at Oakheart. Why were these men wasting good coin on a whorehouse when they clearly wanted to fuck each other? Honestly, Sandor sometimes envied men who didn't want women - females are too difficult. "Ah! Speaking of ice, I also heard the Night's Watch sent a request for manpower because..." The Lannister boy burst out laughing.  
  
"Out with it!" Oakheart shoved his companion on the shoulder so the other man teetered on his chair.  
  
"Wait, it's too good." Alton held up a hand, clutching his chest and trying to calm his mirth. "The dead are rising and attacking!" Both men smiled at each other before Oakheart snorted a laugh. They collapsed onto their table, shaking it with their fist-pounding laughter. Gods, it wasn't that bloody funny. People believe in stupider things - like gods.  
  
"What if it's true?" Trant had a nervous hitch in his voice, the other men at the table openly gaped at him like he'd grown another head. The pair looked at each other before throwing their heads back and howling with laughter. The Lannister boy was actually crying - tears were rolling down his face and he made no move to wipe them. Oakheart clutched his sides and stomped his feet.  
  
"If it's true!" A haughty voice boomed over the din. "We best pray Lord Janos Slynt can slaughter the risen dead as capably as he kills the newly born." The entire room went silent, every eye turned towards Bronn - the half-man's shield. Was everyone Sandor hated going to come tonight? Did he just hate everyone? Trant's bloodshot eyes glowered at the smirking sellsword - obviously hating the man more.  
  
"And why's that?" Trant had a good question and Sandor wanted the answer - but distracted by the growing suspicion that he and Trant were 'alike'. No buggering way he was as big an arsehole as Meryn Trant. Right? Right.  
  
"Lord Tyrion has sent Janos to join the Night's Watch." Bronn took a seat at an empty table across from Oakheart, the three other men turned to face him. "And he's made me Commander of the City Watch." What the fuck?  
  
"What the fuck?" Again, Trant took the words out of Sandor's mouth - this was getting bloody serious. If he had one more thought in common with Ser Meryn Fucking Trant, Sandor would drink himself to death. Trant was on his feet but did not advance towards the seated man. Bronn looked relaxed, legs spread and elbows leaning back on the table. Best possible case, the two men stab each other at the same time and both die.   
  
"I'm shocked as well," the sellsword was as infuriatingly arrogant as his master. "I rather liked being Lord Tyrion's shield, now I'll have a lot less time to come here." A dark-skinned whore walked passed Bronn, swaying her hips intentionally, catching Bronn's notice. "Girl, come take a seat." She turned and smiled at the man - whores never looked at him that way - before sitting daintily on his knee.  
  
"This is shit," Trant hadn't finished with their conversation yet. Bronn had obviously moved on and just ignored the other man. "Janos was following his king's orders-" Oakheart jumped up from his seat and grabbed ahold of Trant's white cloak.   
  
"Shut your mouth!" Even when he was drunk, Oakheart was still smarter than Meryn Trant - Sandor had nothing in common with that fool. Trant didn't appreciate Oakheart's advice so he grabbed the other knight's arm and shoved it off. Lucky for Trant, Oakheart wasn't in a fighting mood and put out his hands as he backed up a step.   
  
"Fuck this." Trant spit on the ground at Oakheart's feet before glaring around the room until his eyes landed on a whore. "You." He pointed at the woman and she actually smiled and walked over, taking his arm to lead the toad to a private room. Whores - right, that's why he was there - GODS DAMN IT ALL! Trant took the one Sandor was thinking of getting for himself. He held up his empty cup - he needed another drink.  
  
"Thank the gods!" Alton Lannister sat back down and sheathed the knife he'd pulled when Oakheart grabbed Trant. Trant was the one who should be thanking the gods he hadn't done something stupid. "I thought he'd never leave! How do you think our king will take the news of the young wolf's terms?" Seven hells, these two hens gossiped more than kitchen wenches.  
  
"Not well," Arys smirked, "considering the Stark boy's men have been thwarting ours in every battle. Poor sweet Lady Sansa will likely suffer for her brother's competence." Ugh, shut up Oakheart. Bugger the gods in their arseholes! Why couldn't he escape that girl?  
  
"Robb Stark's sister?" The young Lannister's attention perked up. "I hear she is very pretty, too bad I've never had a look at her myself." The hound wanted to tear Alton's eyes out for even thinking about looking at her. "The Starks desperately want her and the other girl back. Is she being held as a prisoner or is she still the king's betrothed?"  
  
"For the time it seems she is both," Arys seemed amused by the girl's plight. "I doubt the king will ever give her up but it's unlikely he'll take her for his queen. She's a beauty all right - fiery hair but her temperament is sweet, and she is a little simple. The smart ones are too feisty. I'll bet it wouldn't be a challenge to get between her creamy thighs with a few kind words. Girls like her are almost too easy." Oakheart's arrogant words made Sandor clench his jaw.  
  
"Be careful now," the Lannister boy laughed as he took another swig of his drink. "She's still the king's betrothed!" Damn right she is - best keep your hands to yourself, Oakheart, if you want to keep them.  
  
"For now," Oakheart raised his eyebrows and grinned at his young friend. "But hopefully not for long. I don't fancy my head on a pike just for a tumble with a highborn maiden. Gods, I bet she's tight - not like this lot." The hound felt his body rising out of his seat and barely remembered to drop a few coins on the table. His feet carried him over to Oakheart, just as the man looked up - Sandor walked past with clenched fists.   
  
He shook with frustrated rage as he left quickly, nearly running out the door. The hound strode to the nearest wall and punched the stone with all his strength. A solid cracking sound meant his middle finger broke at the knuckle - again. This wasn't the first time he heard men talking about the little bird. To hear his own darkest thoughts spilling from Oakheart's filthy mouth turned his stomach. To forget Lady Sansa Stark he'd gone to the whorehouse but there was no escaping her.  
  
Damn them all - picturing her wrapped around Oakheart made him want to kill the man. If that pretty 'Ser' whispered devoted promises of rescue in the lady's ear, the little bird would fall. If a lowly dog like him could keep himself in line, why couldn't buggering 'chivalrous knights' do the same? He couldn't trust them to keep away from her so he'd have to continue to haunt the halls outside her chambers. It was for her own good - to keep her safe - he was a godsdamned liar. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/chores/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=174504411)

# Arya

On the journey north, chores were the only thing not in short supply - Arya never had so many chores in her life. Yoren had her and the other boys working from sun up to sun down without so much as a 'thank you'. Today her job was to carry bundles of sticks and it was only slightly less boring than being forced to stitch embroidery. The distraction helped, keeping busy kept her mind off everything that happened back in Kings Landing.  
  
"Boy," a soft voice whispered. Arya glanced around and saw the three prisoners in the wagon cage. "Lovely boy," the handsome one called to her again. Curious, and feeling just brave enough, she approached the wagon.   
  
"What do you want?" She scanned the wagon and its residents with careful scrutiny. Up close, she noticed the man who called to her was good-looking. Perhaps he appeared so much handsomer due to the foulness of his fellow prisoners. Arya knew better than to let a handsome face trick her, not like her stupid sister.  
  
"A man has a thirst." His voice sounded a bit like Syrio Forel, obviously no Westerosi. "A man does not drink for a day and a night. A boy could make a friend." Arya didn't need friends locked in cages.  
  
"I have friends." She did not mean to bristle at the man's words he just struck a nerve because she was a bit lonely for home. It was the truth - she made friends with some of the boys bound for The Wall. Gendry, Hot Pie, and Lommy might not always be the best company but they were far better than none at all. Arya had friends in Winterfell too, and there were bannermen loyal to her family - she was not alone.   
  
"Give us a beer," another prisoner growled at her, "before I skin you." Gods, he was ugly and she even smelled his breath from a good distance away. The attractive foreigner did not seem anything like his two cellmates, and even spoke the common tongue better than near every man in the whole group.  
  
"A man does not choose his companions." The foreign man was too pretty and soft-spoken to be a raper so he must be a killer or a thief, either way was still better. Sometimes people deserve death - Arya understood that well. Sometimes stealing was the only way to survive but rapers were just evil. "These two, they have no courtesy," he bowed his head in a respectful nod, "a man must ask forgiveness." He didn't seem so bad but she wasn't about to trust him.  
  
"You're called Arry." He was attentive, she gave a single nod at his observation, and he smiled. "This man has the honor to be Jaqen H'ghar, once of the Free City of Lorath." So, the soft-spoken prisoner was a Lorathi. Arya was even more curious and was about ask what it was like in the Free Cities.  
  
"Beer, you little shit," the piggish one interrupted, "get us beer!" The ugly man - though not the ugliest - looked her up and down. Her heart stopped when she saw the lust in his eyes. He knew! "You're almost pretty enough to fuck. Come closer and I'll shove my cock up your bunghole and fuck you bloody."   
  
"Filthy pig!" Arya threw down her bundle of sticks in a huff, disgusted by the man. A small part of her was grateful he just wanted to rape her as a boy instead of knowing she's a girl. Nobody cares about little orphan Arry, but no one can know her as a lady of House Stark. If anyone found out, she would have to kill again.  
  
"Come here!" The pig screamed and stuck his hand through the cage to grab at her but never came close to touching her. Arya easily backed out of reach, her hand resting on needle's hilt.  
  
"Yoren said none of us were to go near those three." Gendry walked between Arya and the wagon with his own - much larger - bundle of sticks. She rolled her eyes at his worrying and ignored the way his shoulders bulged under his tunic with the effort. The bull apprentice acted like he knew everything but she still considered him a friend.   
  
"They don't scare me," she told him, pumping her shorter legs quicker to catch up with his long strides. Usually, Arya felt jealous of anyone bigger and stronger than her, but with Gendry, it didn't upset her so much. He had to do all of the hardest chores in any case.  
  
"Then you're stupid." Gendry's tone was annoyed but she recognized the worry in his voice that often reminded her of father. "They scare me." He was a strange boy always spoke in an honest way and never puffed himself up like the other boys. Arya watched him and admitted that he wasn't a 'boy' and probably closer to being a man. What exactly makes a boy into a man? The sound of riders approaching interrupted her thoughts.  
  
"What are Goldcloaks doing so far from King's Landing?" Arya asked the question but she already knew the answer - they are here for her! She ducked, scrambling on the ground to get out of sight. Gendry to look back at her curiously, confusion etched into his features.  
  
"What're you do'n?" He seemed to recognize her fear, keeping his voice low as a whisper to avoid attention. It didn't matter - everyone's attention was on the riders.  
  
"They're looking for me." Arya wished her voice didn't sound so scared, or that Gendry's eyes did not look so worried. They both turned their attention back to the riders who drew near the brother of the Night's Watch.  
  
"You're in command here?" The lead Goldcloak questioned Yoren from atop his horse, Arya knew well enough that it was a sign of disrespect. Her feet wanted to run - fly fast and far away - but that would only call attention to her. Stay quiet - quiet as a shadow - fear cuts deeper than swords.   
  
"You're a long way from home." At least Yoren didn't act intimidated by the soldiers in their shining armor. She held her breath and strained to listen to the conversation between the two men.  
  
"I asked you a question." Obviously, the arrogant Goldcloak was used to getting what he wanted.  
  
"Aye, you did," Yoren lowered his voice and stepped towards the mounted man so Arya could not hear what he said.  
  
"I have a royal warrant," the Goldcloak announced. "For one of these gutter rats you're transporting." Arya felt her stomach doing summersaults and willed her body to stop trembling. Calm as still water.  
  
"Well the thing is," Yoren was unimpressed by the other man. "These 'gutter rats' belong to the Night's Watch now. That puts them beyond the reach of kings and queens." Arya finally felt air making its way into her lungs again - she was safe for the moment. Yoren approached the Goldcloak and seemed to be threatening the arrogant man.   
  
"We'll just keep that," the crow said as he pulled the knight's sword out of its scabbard. "Good steel is always needed on The Wall." Yoren spoke loud, wanting every recruit to hear him. "Seems you have a choice. You can die here at this crossroads, a long way from home. Or, you can go back to your city and tell your masters you didn't find what you were looking for." The knight appeared to consider the man's words - at first.  
  
"We're looking for a boy named Gendry!" The Goldcloak's announcement should have made her feel better but Arya felt worse. "He carries a bull's head helmet. Anyone turning him over will earn the King's reward." Great - Gendry's life depended on the loyalty of boys, rapers, and thieves. "We'll be back, with more men." Her heart sank into her stomach as she assessed the pitiful group of men they traveled with.  
  
Arya rose from her hiding place to face the bull, his dumbstruck expression probably matched her own. All of the Night's Watch recruits stared at them - at Gendry. He gave her one last worried look before turning to leave - his strides were quick and stiff. She had her own problems but Gendry was her friend and he stood up for her. Arya wanted to protect him like she couldn't protect her father. By the gods old and new, she would not lose anyone else to the Lannisters.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/buckets/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=174505795)

# Gendry

"Gendry's an armorer's apprentice," she said it proudly like she had some claim over him. Arry, Hot Pie, and Lommy were scrubbing dishes in the stream and debating what makes the difference between a battle and a brawl. Gendry bent to keep cleaning the dishes, ignoring their childish banter. "Hot Pie - tell Gendry what makes a fight into a battle."   
  
"It's... ah... when they've got armor on." Hot Pie acted tough sometimes but his wide eyes and mop of curly hair made him look just a lad. Gendry considered taking it easy on him before remembering the way the bigger boy pushed around the littler ones. The fat boy only showed his meek side to those bigger than him.   
  
"And who told you that?" Gendry had to remind himself that he was once just as green as these boys: and girl. For the hundredth time he wondered the same thought. What in the seven hells was a little girl doing on her way to join the Night's Watch? And with a bunch of rapers, bastards, and thieves? Why'd she think the Goldcloaks were coming for her? Why in the seven hells did they come for him?!  
  
"A knight?" Hot Pie's voice went up at the end, like he did not seem too sure of his answer.  
  
"How'd ye know he was a knight?" Gendry knew he should stay out of it... but if he didn't set Hot Pie straight he'd just go on believing nonsense.  
  
"Wull," the round-faced boy stared at the ground, not saying anything before stuttering an answer. "It's... 'cause he got ar-armor on."  
  
"You don't have'ta be a knight to have armor," he told Hot Pie, shaking his head. "Any idiot can buy armor." Gendry saw Arry grinning at him and couldn't help but smile back. How was he still able to smile? He was headed to The Wall to swear his life to the Night's Watch and besides that: he's being hunted by the bloody Goldcloaks! Arry might just be right when she called him stupid.  
  
"How'd you know?" Hot Pie seemed more willing to believe someone actually wearing armor was a knight than take his word. Gendry was starting to think Hot Pie might be more simple-minded than just green.   
  
"Cause I sold armor," he might have spoken too harshly to the boy but he was already in a shit mood. Hot Pie and Lommy left to look for other work and Gendry set to his task of filling up buckets of water. What an adventure! Of course, Arry would never let him get any work done. She nimbly walked across the rocks to stand by his side, her hands behind her back.  
  
"What did the Goldcloaks want with you?" Arry just didn't know how to let anything go, always pesky, and bloody relentless. She must be the most annoying girl he's ever met, not that he'd actually met many girls. For more than ten years, his days have been the same: wake up, eat, forge, eat, and sleep. And Gendry never did get to eat enough. Gods, he was so bloody tired.  
  
"No idea," he answered honestly: been asking himself that same question all day. The only reason he thought of was it must be connected to the Hand of the King coming to see him. Gendry wanted to ask her his own questions. Why did she believe the Goldcloaks came for her? He distractedly filled up his buckets with water for a large cooking pot.  
  
"You're a liar." Little Arry could be a big pain in his arse sometimes: it was going to get her in trouble someday: or killed. He didn't want to be responsible for anyone's death! Especially not Arry, even though she drives him mad.   
  
"You shouldn't insult people that're bigger than you." Gendry thought it was good advice but Arry didn't seem to think so. He turned his back to walk away from, smirking a bit at her frustrated expression.  
  
"Then I wouldn't get to insult anyone," she followed behind him. Arry's voice was funny when she complained, getting all pitchy and grumbly. Gendry didn't have to see her face to know she was scrunching up her nose. How did she manage to fool anyone into thinking she's a boy? Boys aren't amusing when they complain: just annoying.  
  
"Nah, I don't care what any of 'em want." Gendry was confused and troubled by the entire situation. "No good's ever come of their questions." Did he ask the Hand of the King to come see him? Did he ask Master Mott to send him off to the Night's Watch? Nobody ever asked what he wanted!  
  
"No good's ever come?" Arry wasn't put off by his foul mood one bit: curious as a cat she was. "You've been asked questions before?" He tried to ignore her as he filled the large pot with the water he collected.  
  
"How can someone so small be such a huge pain in my ass?" Gendry liked Arry, he did. Yelling at some little girl just because he was angry made him an asshole. Couldn't she just let it be? Didn't she see that it's unsafe to be around him? They stuck together before because it benefited them both, now it might get her killed!  
  
"Who asked questions?" She kept on questioning and it started to make him more than annoyed. Gendry looked at her, intending to bite her head off, but saw her dark eyes were wide and almost fearful. Fear was not an emotion he saw often in Arry's eyes because she's always the bravest. He gave up with a sigh: the truth might not make her feel better but it was all he had to offer.  
  
"The Hand of the King," he told her before correcting himself, "The 'Hands' of the King." Gendry sighed, not wanting to believe he was somehow connected to their deaths. "Lord Arryn came first, a few weeks before he died. And then Lord Stark came, a few weeks before he died."   
  
"Lord Stark," Arry sounded terrified. He knew he shouldn't have told her anything. Why was he always doing shit that was stupid and now he was scaring little girls?  
  
"See?" Gendry looked back at the girl and saw her eyes downcast for the first time ever. "Askin' me questions is bad luck." He walked away to fill up another bucket, hoping she would let it go and stop talking about the Goldcloaks. "You'll probably be dead soon."  
  
"What did they ask about?" Arry wouldn't be scared off so easily and he should have known that.   
  
"My mum," he answered simply.  
  
"Who's your mum?" Why couldn't she just leave well enough alone? It was hard enough to get the day's work done without being reminded he had no family or anyone to care if he lived or died.  
  
"Jus'," he swallowed the lump in his throat, "my mum." Gendry felt stupid for getting emotional so he kept busy, filling his bucket with water. "Worked in a tavern: died when I was little."   
  
"And who was your father?" She asked the same question he'd been asking his whole life. Wouldn't he like to know? Nah not really: fuck that bastard. Gendry had no fucking idea who his 'father' was and wished he never would. If Arry weren't going to drop it then he couldn't be responsible for her being afraid or his rising anger.   
  
"He could be one of those gold-hatted bastards, for all I know." Gendry didn't like the bitterness in his voice or the questions that put it there. Arry needed a taste of her own medicine. "What about you, anyway? I thought they were after you. Why, did you kill someone or is it jus' because yer a girl?" He didn't mean to lose his temper but there it was: out in the open.  
  
"I'm not a girl!" Arry was clearly shocked that someone so 'stupid' figured her out. Did she really think she was fooling everyone? Well, the group they traveled with weren't the brightest lot of blokes: that's the truth.  
  
"Yes," he stressed his certainty, "ye are." She'd never convince him otherwise: he worked it out long ago. Gendry walked back to the large cooking pot, carrying both buckets full of water. "You think I'm as stupid as the rest of 'em?" His back was turned to her so he didn't feel so bad for grinning at her obvious panic.  
  
"Stupider - Night's Watch doesn't take girls, everyone knows that." She had a good point, but it didn't change the fact that Arry's a girl. It felt good to hear that panic and her voice, putting the proud little girl in her place. Yeah, he could admit she's smarter than him, but she wouldn't always be smarter all the time.  
  
"That's true," he was having a bit too much fun: she seemed frightened out of her wits. "Yer still a girl." Gendry couldn't help himself and besides it served her right for asking about his parents. Everyone thought bastards were born tougher, truth be told: nobody cares when a bastard cries so they learn not to bother.   
  
"I am not!" Her pointless arguing was beginning to annoy him again. Arry should learn that she couldn't poke the bull without getting the horns.  
  
"Well, pull your cock out an' take a piss then." Gendry knew he was being harsh: she was just a little girl after all. A blacksmith had to be patient by trade but there's no forge here, only endless buckets of water.   
  
"I don't need to take a piss." Arry's hopeless tone was starting to make Gendry feel bad for bullying her. "Lommy and Hot Pie can't know," she begged, "no one can know." She stared up at him with big grey eyes peeking through wisps of dark hair strewn wildly across her face. This mysterious girl was going to be the death of him: he knew it.  
  
"They won't," he promised. "Not from me." After all, Gendry had been protecting her since she first showed up, he wasn't about to start betraying her now.   
  
"My name's not Arry," her voice was soft as she finally admitted the truth, "its Arya." Gendry supposed it was a pretty name, better than 'Arry' anyway. "Of House Stark." House Stark? His head snapped towards her in shock before his brain could even absorb what she said. "Yoren is taking me home to Winterfell," she rambled but he barely heard her. She's: Arry's a lady?! The daughter of Lord Stark?   
  
"He was your father," he finally choked out. "The Hand, the traitor." Gendry didn't mean to say it like that!  
  
"He was never a traitor!" Arry's dark eyes flashed with anger. "Joffrey is a liar!" He knew it was true then, without a doubt.  
  
"So," he blew out a deep breath, "you're a highborn, then." Gendry didn't want to accept it but he could tell she was saying the truth. "You're a lady."   
  
"No," she said and his heart flew to the seven heavens. "I mean yes - my mother was a lady, and my sister." Gendry was dropped into the deepest of the seven hells.  
  
"But you were a lord's daughter an' you lived in a castle." Gods, the fucking things he said to her! "Look, all that about cocks, I should never have said-" Fucking bloody seven hells! "I've been pissin' in front of you and everything!" Little wild Arry was a lady: Gendry still could not believe it despite knowing it was true. "I should be calling you 'milady'," he couldn't help teasing a bit.  
  
"Do not call me milady." There was the Arry he liked: full of spit and fire. She might be a highborn lady, but she was no 'lady', like she said.   
  
"As milady commands," he grinned when she tilted her chin down to shadow her angry stare and narrowed her dark brows. It wasn't a pretty pout some girls make: her glare was downright murderous.  
  
"Enough 'milady's' and joking about cocks!" She shoved at his chest hard enough to make him stumble back and fall on his arse. His grin felt like it might split his face, seeing the tiny girl so full of untamed wildness. At least the one thing he could count on was Arry's quick temper and that comforted him somehow.  
  
"Well, that was unladylike," he quipped and tried to rise. She suddenly knelt next to him and put her face dangerously close to his. Gendry's heart started pounding in his chest and for a moment he was terrified she could hear it.  
  
"Is your life so worthless to you?" Arry's whispered breath puffed against his face. "Mine isn't. You heard them - they will be back with more men! Look at this rabble," her eyes scanned around the camp and he found himself doing the same. "Do you think they can withstand an army of Goldcloaks?" She closed her eyes and inhaled deep, making Gendry realize he was holding his own breath. "We need to leave."   
  
"Leave?" Gendry spoke too loud, considering she was so close they were near touching. He turned his head from side to side: making sure no one heard him. "No," he mumbled distractedly, "it's safer to stay with the group-"  
  
"No, it's not," she interrupted him, reaching out to grab his shoulder to force his full attention on her. "Gendry," her intense unblinking stare pinned him in place. "They are already looking for both of us. We're putting these boys and men in danger by staying with them."   
  
"But I-" Gendry had to admit she had a point. He never wanted to confess he was afraid to go with her. "We'll never make it on our own."   
  
"Why?" Arry kept her irritated voice down, speaking through her gritted teeth. "You think because I'm a 'lady' that I can't take care of myself?"   
  
"Milady," Gendry didn't care to argue anymore. "I'm an armorer's apprentice! I don't know how to survive in the wilderness, I never hunted in my life, an' I've no idea how to cook over a fire without a pot." It hurt his pride to admit he was useless without a hammer in his hands: smithing is all he ever did.  
  
"You southroners are so soft," she rolled her eyes and lightened her tone. "I'm a 'highborn lady' and I can do all those things." Arry stood up and held out her hand to him, as if her tiny arms could ever help him up. To his surprise, she was stronger than she appeared, but he should've known that already. "Look, we can take care of each other and travel faster with just the two of us. Come with me, Gendry, Winterfell could always use a talented blacksmith."   
  
"Well then," he smiled at the way she tried to flatter him into going with her. Truth was, he already made up his mind to go as soon as she asked. Gendry was beginning to worry Lady Arya Stark could command him to do just about anything. "Milady, I am yours to command." She scowled at him but he saw the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips: don't think about her lips.  
  
"I just might kill you before we make it to Winterfell." Arry crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. "Eat, sleep well tonight, and tomorrow we make a plan. We can wake early and pack what we need - then we go north." North to Winterfell: that sounded good, hells, anything sounded better than a life on The Wall. Gendry nodded at her and they parted to finish their chores. She told him to sleep but he doubted he'd get much of that done this night.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/wildflowers/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=174505960)

# Jaime

He could taste her skin: it tasted of summer, wildflowers, and innocence. Cersei had been innocent once, the only girl he ever loved. Now she was cold, playing her part of the ice queen without mercy or any trace of innocence left. Except when he was deep inside her, then she couldn't play 'queen' anymore, she was simply a woman. Beautiful, passionate, and wild like she had been when she was a girl.   
  
"Catch me, Jaime," Cersei's throaty laughter surrounded him. He looked around but all he could see was endless fields of wild flowering plants and tall grasses. Jaime knew this place: this meadow was just a short ride's distance from Casterly Rock. They played here and loved here as children, pretending to be grown. Her amusement sounded clear as did her voice but she was nowhere to be found. Though winded from running, he tried to follow the sound.  
  
"Where are you?" Jaime cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted for her but got no response, only echoing laughter. Dejected, he fell on his arse and started pulling up the colorful weeds by their roots and pulling them apart. Why did she play with him? Was she really as emotionless as she seemed, had he been a fool to believe she truly loved him? He missed her so much it hurt. A soft rustling noise from behind and made him turn around.  
  
"I'm right where you left me." She was behind him: standing in the field naked except for her long golden hair hanging down over her breasts. This was always how he saw Cersei, young, carefree, and just a little wanton. Jaime always knew that part of his appeal to her was that he was forbidden, the ultimate rebellion. She walked slowly towards him, a smirk on her lips and her green eyes burning with lust.  
  
"I couldn't find you!" Jaime scolded her but was already grinning like a lovesick fool when she settled into his lap. Somehow, his clothes disappeared and he could feel her silken skin heating his own. "I was worried: don't ever hide from me again." He cupped her face and kissed her, drinking in her taste and the little sounds of pleasure she made. Cersei slipped her hand down around his cock and guided it inside her.  
  
"Fuck," the curse tore from his throat against her lush mouth and Cersei moaned. Jaime tried to pull her tighter against him: it felt like she was not quite close enough. Every time he embraced her tighter, she appeared to float away from him. "Don't go, please, Cersei. I'm so alone, please don't leave me."  
  
"You - left me." Cersei was gone from his lap and the field of flowers dissolved into darkness. She stood in the Whispering Woods: frozen hard and standing proud, fully dressed in her queenly refinery. A growl sounded behind her and two glowing eyes emerged from the dark forest. Robb Stark's direwolf stalked up behind her but she did not seem to notice.  
  
"Cersei, run to me!" Jaime called to her but his armor and sword grew too heavy when he tried to run forward. The wolf circled around Cersei: her blonde hair and its grey pelt shining in the moonlight. "No, please: run!" She stood motionless, finally noticing the wolf but not shying away from it. In her hand, she held a stag's antler: she stabbed towards the beast as it sprang at her.   
  
"NO!" Jaime woke in a cold sweat to the sound of a lock turning over. When he saw who came to visit his heart pounded in his chest, but he hid his panic with a mocking grin. Robb Stark was a handsome boy indeed, the spitting image of his noble father.   
  
"King in the North!" The only thing Jaime could do was act like an ass: luckily, he was pretty good at that. "I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safekeeping, but now you're dragging me back to Riverrun." He grinned at the boy's scowl. "Have you grown fond of me, Stark? Is that it? I'm probably prettier than your Frey wife. Congratulations, by the way."  
  
"Don't talk about my wife with your filthy mouth, kingslayer." The young wolf's direwolf growled as his master scowled. Hit a nerve there, did he? "I'm not foolish enough to leave you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within a fortnight." Smart boy: no, he had to stop thinking of Robb Stark as a boy. Jaime hated having to admit his father was right to say 'never underestimate your enemies'.  
  
"You don't trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle?" He cocked an eyebrow, impressed by the steely calm in the young man's eyes. Ned Stark taught the boy well, Jaime could only hope the son would be as foolishly noble as his father.  
  
"Oh, I trust them with my life," Robb's voice had a dark edge to it that twisted Jaime's gut. "Just not with yours." He had to appreciate a man who could make a quality jape while subtly threatening someone's life: that's a rare skill.  
  
"Smart," flattery can be a powerful weapon: Cersei taught him that. "But then I knew you were smart: you defeated and captured me, after all." Jaime knew the best insults were delivered after a compliment. "Now all you have to do is turn your wife around and put a son in her and then you'll be a true king." There it was - that fire in Robb's eyes was exactly the reaction he wanted. Unfortunately, the direwolf looked equally displeased.  
  
"Insult my wife again and you'll regret it." The wolf might have been responding to the tone in his master's voice. Maybe there truly was some bloody magical connection between them. The beast approached slowly, growling and baring its teeth. "Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros. King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true king nor a true Baratheon. He's your bastard son."  
  
"If that's true, Stannis is the rightful king." Jaime tried to keep his tone light, even as he was nearly pissing himself with fear. Fortunately, his captors kept him in a near constant state of dehydration. "How convenient for him."  
  
"My father learned the truth." Robb's anger was riled but he seemed fully in control of himself: a notable problem. He needed the young wolf to lose his composure and slip up. "That's why you had him executed." Jaime scoffed at the absurd accusation.  
  
"I was your prisoner when Ned Stark lost his head," Jaime reminded him. Robb Stark had such a poor memory for such a young man, maybe he spent too much time with his pet.  
  
"Your son killed him so the world wouldn't learn who fathered him." The young wolf glowered at him as his pet took another step closer. "And you: you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the queen." Panic and just the slightest twinge of guilt gripped his stomach. Robb would never relax his prisoner's conditions if he thought the man tried to kill his brother.  
  
"You have proof?" Jaime kept his tone light but he couldn't keep the pitch quite right: too high. Cersei always did say he was a terrible liar. "Or do you want to trade gossip like a couple of fishwives?" Robb Stark sneered in disgust at him, a very bad sign.  
  
"I'm sending one of your cousins down to King's Landing with my peace terms." Perhaps Robb Stark still was a boy if he was naive enough to think he could use Jaime to bargain with.  
  
"You think my father's going to negotiate with you?" Jaime laughed: pleased he was starting to sound confident again. Mayhaps even a touch cocky, as per tradition. "You don't know him very well."  
  
"No, but he's starting to know me." Robb's menacing tone and fiery glare were very impressive indeed but Jaime saw him as a little wolf pup, growling at a fully-grown lion. Sure, he was currently down in the dirt: but not for long.  
  
"Three victories don't make you a conqueror." Jaime had almost forgotten about the direwolf, successfully ignoring it: until its fangs were inches from his face.  
  
"It's better than three defeats," the young wolf growled. Jaws, teeth, and death lunged at his face: Jaime flinched away involuntarily. He opened his eyes again when the hinges swung closed, the young wolf and his pet were gone. Huffing out a sigh of relief, he settled his head back on the post behind him. As he tried to sleep again, 'let me dream of wildflowers and summer', he prayed to the gods.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/strategy/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=174505215)

# Robb

"Stay," he told Grey Wind. The wolf whined a bit but sat his arse down without much grumbling: to be fair, Robb felt the same way. It gave him confidence to have a giant direwolf at his side as it likely would for any man. Without the wolf, he didn't feel entitled to the title 'Young Wolf' or even 'King in the North'. His mind still hadn't accepted it yet, and somehow he still felt surprised every morning to wake up next to his bride.  
  
Steeling himself, he walked into his command tent, musing on his recent interaction with the kingslayer, and confident it went well enough. Alton Lannister, the Greatjon, and a few of Robb's most trusted bannermen waited inside the tent to discuss the High Council's terms: Robb wished he could seek out his bed, preferably with Merry in it. His spine straightened as he locked eyes with the Lannister envoy and he set his mind right for these negotiations.  
  
"You're Ser Alton Lannister?" Robb stepped closer to the young man standing in front of him, taking in his appearance.   
  
"I am, Your Grace." Alton Lannister was nothing like the kingslayer: no cockiness nor unnerving calm. Most men would have screamed or cried if a direwolf snapped at his face and Robb would have done both. He'd seen Grey Wind take down prey, the idea of being a direwolf's meal was downright terrifying.  
  
"I offer your cousins peace if they meet my terms." Robb had spent enough time with a Lannister for one night: best do this quickly. "First, your family must release my sisters. Second, my father's bones must be returned to us. So he may rest beside his brother and sister in the crypts beneath Winterfell. And the remains of all those who died in his service must also be returned. Their families can honor them with proper funerals."  
  
"An honorable request," the eager young man cut him off, "Your Grace-"  
  
"Third," he ignored the false praise: Alton Lannister might have time for flattery but Robb did not. Joffrey and the Queen Regent must renounce all claim to dominion of the North." Robb held back a satisfied smirk when Alton gaped at him, an expression of pure shock. "From this time till the end of time, we are a free and independent kingdom."  
  
"The King in the North!" Greatjon Umber proclaimed Robb's title to the Lannister. His heart filled with the confidence he pretended to have. This move had to work, if only he felt sure that showing strength this early actually was the best course of action.  
  
"King in the North," some the other bannermen echoed. Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, and Galbart Glover were the loudest. Finally, Robb began to believe in his course of action though he knew it put his sisters at greater risk. These negotiations were never meant to go well: they will convey his intention and strength. Even for his own sisters, he could not give into the temptation to beg the Lannisters.   
  
"Neither Joffrey nor any of his men shall set foot in our lands again," Robb told Alton. "If he disregards this command, he shall suffer the same fate as my father, only I don't need a servant to do my beheading for me." The young man gulped visibly and his eyes darted around the tent.  
  
"These a-are," Alton Lannister stuttered. "Your Grace, these are-"  
  
"These are my terms," Robb wasn't about to debate with a messenger. He already knew how the High Council would react: in fact, he was counting on it. This move would reveal much about who held the power in Kings Landing. "If the Queen Regent and her son meet them, I'll give them peace. If not, I will litter the south with Lannister dead."  
  
"King Joffrey is a Baratheon," the young man corrected. "Your Grace."  
  
"Oh, is he?" He smiled menacingly at the envoy: all but done with him. "You'll ride at daybreak, Ser Alton." The quicker the Queen, Joffrey, or whoever pulled the strings got his terms: the sooner Robb could develop a better strategy of attack. "That will be all for tonight." He turned to walk quickly out of the tent, hoping to catch Merry in the middle of her evening wash.  
  
"Robb?" His mother's voice called his name and he suppressed a groan as his feet stopped in their tracks. Apparently, his wife would have to clean herself without him. "I need to speak with you," she approached his side wearing an anxious expression. Robb nodded, unwilling to hide his reluctance, and she led the way to their horses. Soon enough they would be leaving The Twins forever and he would be glad to see his army leave the shadow of this gloomy castle.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/still_boy/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=174504638)

# Catelyn

Inside her guest chambers, Robb took a seat at the small wooden table, remaining silent as she retrieved a jug of water and two goblets. The quiet persisted as she poured, making the sloshing of the water deafening. Her anxiety grew every day as she worried about her son and this war. By day, he hardly left his command tent, forever frowning whenever he finally escaped. Only then he rushed off to spend his nights... getting to know his wife.  
  
"I am considering sending a raven to Balon Greyjoy." Robb averted his eyes, finding the toe of his boot suddenly interesting. "Asking him to send a fleet of his ships to join my attack on King's Landing." She sighed at his ridiculous idea, almost regretting that she finally gained his attention yet they needed to discuss the girls. Ser Cassel must have learned of Ned's murder but apparently, not a word from him arrived.  
  
"You don't want Balon Greyjoy for an ally," Cat explained wearily, handing him a goblet of water. It had been a long day for everyone. Every day was a long day since they heard the news... Ned is lost to them forever. Her son seemed far too content to keep his strategy for rescuing the girls to himself. She needed to be included, if not for her opinion then only for her sanity!  
  
"I need his ships," he reasoned, "they say he has two hundred." Robb was being too shortsighted, counting his victories before the battles were even fought. Cat walked back over to the water basin to fill up another cup for herself.  
  
"They say a million rats live in the sewers of King's Landing!" Cat's meant her exasperation to show her displeasure and instead she seemed to amuse her son. "Shall we rally them to fight for us?" Robb grinned at her wit but tried to hide it by putting his hand in front of his mouth. The very picture of kingly contemplation while holding back a giggle. Still such a boy...   
  
"I understand you don't trust Lord Greyjoy," he began to give her a well-rehearsed speech that she did not care to hear.  
  
"I don't trust Lord Greyjoy because he is not trustworthy," she interrupted. Cat dropped the ladle into the water basin with a splash and walked to stand in front of her son. "Your father had to go to war to end his rebellion." As she sat, Catelyn recalled telling Ned not to let the boys become too close with Theon. As she warned, it confused his position in their household and the relations between their Houses. As usual, she was right... and would never again say that to her husband.  
  
"Yes," his voice softened, almost sad. "And now I'm the one rebelling against the throne. Before me, it was father." Robb gave her his charming half-smile, almost exactly the same one his father would often use to soften her heart. "You married one rebel and mothered another."  
  
"I mothered more than just rebels," she whispered, her voice tight from emotion. "Robb, I trust Ser Cassel and I even believe that Theon would try to get the girls back somehow..." Cat rose to pace, unable to sit still as her heart was breaking from hopelessness. "I just cannot see how they will be able to." Two men against the Kingsguard and all the Lannister men in Kings Landing?!  
  
"If I trade the Kingslayer for two girls," his words set her on edge, "my bannermen will string me up by my feet." Cat turned her back on her son - her king - enraged by his phrasing. 'Two girls'? Not 'Arya and Sansa' or his 'sisters' but just two girls, worthless as far as the world was concerned. Why hadn't she prepared them better for this cruel world? She thought there was still time and then everything happened so quickly...  
  
"How much longer can we leave Sansa in the Queen's hands?" She demanded an answer, turning to face Robb and barely recognizing the young man sitting before her. "And Arya! I haven't heard a word about Arya! What are we fighting for if not for them?"  
  
"It's more complicated than that." Robb stood, walked over to her side, and took her hand in his own. "You know it is. I trust Ser Rodrik and I trust Theon, they will send word if there is any way to get the girls back." Cat saw his need for her approval and trust but he was a man grown and a king, he didn't need his mother the way her other children did.  
  
"You are taking your army and wife to Riverrun," she sighed, patting his hand, "it's time for me to go home... I haven't seen Bran or Rickon in months." Cat still had a chance with the boys, to teach them more about the realities of war and politics so they can be stronger.   
  
"I'm sorry, mother." Robb's soft words sent a cold chill up her spine as she leveled her eyes on him. "I cannot send you to Winterfell yet." So, it begins... she was no longer his mother but a 'subject' to be ordered around.  
  
"And why is that?" Her clipped words stunned him as she tore her hand from his grasp. Catelyn had never turned the full force of her fury on Robb before. Men always forgot that women could have ferocity hidden behind feminine courtly graces. Ned was different from other men in that way, he truly listened to her. At least, unless Robert Baratheon opened his loud mouth.   
  
"I need you to ride south to the Stormlands, to negotiate with Renly Baratheon." Robb ran a hand through his curls that had once been red like hers but darkened as he grew into a man. "He's rallied an army of one hundred-thousand. You know him: you know his family."  
  
"I haven't seen Renly Baratheon since he was a boy," she protested. "You have a hundred other lords-"  
  
"Which of these lords do I trust more than you?" Robb cut her off, likely expecting her to suggest he send someone else. "If Renly sides with us, we'll outnumber them two to one. When they feel the jaws beginning to shut, they'll sue for peace." He took her hand again, a pleading look on his face... still such a boy. "We'll get the girls back. Then we'll all go home: for good."   
  
"I will ride at first light." Cat had no real choice but to quietly agree, just as her son had no choice but to send her. Yes, she understood his motives and accepted his methods. Still, it broke her heart for him to be so unfeeling towards his own family. Family means little to a king, not when he has a kingdom to rule.  
  
"We will all be together again soon, I promise." Robb meant every word, she saw honesty in his eyes, but his vague promise was not the same as a plan. War it is then, he was set on finishing this on the battlefield. Cat prayed to the Mother that her children would be safe until then.  
  
"You've done so well," she told him, cupping his bearded cheek, "Your father would be proud." Cat wanted to tell him that she was proud as well but knew hearing those words from a woman meant very little to grown men. She hoped her sons would be different, that they would follow their father's example. It seems... even to her own sons... she would always be 'only a woman'.  
  
"Give Lord Renly my regards," he let out a breath and smiled, obviously pleased that she was being a good biddable woman. Cat forced herself to let go of the bitterness that would not serve any use to her in getting her children back. Being a worthy ambassador for her kingly son would help.  
  
"King Renly," she reminded him. "There's a king in every corner now." Cat bowed her head in subversive dismissal and waited for her son to leave. Once alone, she stumbled forward to collapse in the nearest chair and leaned an elbow against the table. If she closed her eyes, she still remembered the day her firstborn came into this world... the pain, the joy, and the fear that never stopped. 'Mother', she prayed, 'keep him safe... keep them all safe for me'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'The Night Lands' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> ♪♫ One... is the loneliest number that you'll ever do... ♩♬


	5. Unspoken, Unseen, Unsaid

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/trapped/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=175333654)

# Sansa

Tears blurred her vision as Sansa stared down at the steps to keep from slipping and breaking her neck. Perhaps that might not be such a bad thing... never having to dine with a Lannister again. Food turned to ash in her mouth when required to look at their blinding golden hair and deceptively beautiful eyes. They looked like the most perfect and beautiful family, making her long for her own.

"Look who's come out to play." The hound stepped in Sansa's path, jolting her from a stupor of self-pity. The wicked grin on his face infuriated her because she was in no mood to serve as his amusement. Why was he sometimes helpful, only to torment her later? "You think the king wants his little prize out wandering alone?" His hot breath smelled strongly of wine, he was drunk... again.

"I'm going back to my chambers, ser." Familiar aching disappointment welled up inside Sansa's chest. Every time the hound behaved cruelly to her, she felt lonelier than ever. He alone cared to protect her yet, after each kind deed, he acted especially ruthless towards her. Heart racing, she realized he trapped her between cold stone and his armored body. Trapped like a caged bird.

"You're almost a woman," his crude words, coupled with the intimate distance between them, made her stomach clench. "The king will be having you soon." The hound smiled his terrible smile, apparently enjoying how his scorn crushed her. The impudence... wiping a bit of blood from her lip did not entitle him to say such horrible things! Sansa searched her mind for a retort to upset him, no longer afraid of his sneering insults. "Taking you into his bed-"

"My wedding night will be the happiest-!"

"Stop that!" He grabbed her elbow roughly, his metal gauntlet digging into her skin almost to the point of pain. His voice seethed with fury, his hard glare full of hatred. Her anger faded instantly as the sharp sting of betrayal pierced her heart. Sansa barely felt any physical discomfort, too dismayed by his roughness. She tried to yank her arm from his iron grasp, realizing how foolish she was to believe the hound might be a good man.

"You're hurting me!" She panicked, once again a little girl quaking before the hound, praying to the Mother for help. "Please, ser!" Sansa regretted her mistake as soon as 'ser' escaped her mouth, as he hated that title. It made her nervous, being trapped so close to him, causing her to rely on the insincere courtesy that he loathed. The hound tightened his grip on her arm and leaned even closer, giving Sansa the bizarre impression that he wanted to kiss her. 

"Ser," he growled scornfully, "I'm a dog, remember?" His words were mocking yet Sansa heard bitterness in his voice that surprised her. "The king's dog - and you're his little bird. Won't you sing a song for me, little bird, a song about knights and fair maidens?" She saw something, buried deep underneath the hostility, something... softer and almost sad. "Go on, sing."

"You won't hurt me," she insisted softly, feeling braver than she had since she left Winterfell. Sansa let her annoyance show in her expression. As he frequently insisted, she looked the hound straight in the eye and showed him she was no longer afraid.

"Sing!" His voice grated viciously, fury overwhelmed his scarred features as his grip tightened and shook her once more. Sansa saw past the hound, past the scars and rage, seeing only a very unhappy man. He was all bark and no bite, at least when it came to her. She might have laughed at such a confounding realization if she were not upset with him for being so hateful towards her.

"I don't know any songs, not anymore." She used the same icy tone mother used when she was irritated with father. An unfamiliar expression relaxed the hound's fearsome features and nearly stopped her heart. He was stunned! What else could he want, if not for her to understand life is not a song? How could he be... dismayed?

Miraculously, his stare wavered almost sheepishly and his hand gentled its hold on her arm. Somehow, she managed to cow a powerful warrior with a chilly comment and a furrowed brow! Beyond that, the hound revealed himself to have a kind of... affection for her. Was that really possible? Sansa caught his gaze before he glanced away, trying to decipher what emotion stirred within them.

His grey eyes, usually dark with anger, softened and appeared surprised, as if truly seeing her for the first time. His lips parted to speak, but the words died on his tongue. Seeing the hound tamed made Sansa's pulse quicken but not due to fear. Perchance... was it possible he felt-?

"Clegane, what's going on here?" The imp interrupted her speculation, the hound's hand trailed down her arm as he released her. Relief flooded through her but accompanied by a small stab of regret. Sansa felt on the verge of a great discovery, only to be stopped an instant before the final reveal! She focused on Lord Tyrion, trying not to appear overly flustered.

"Never mind, imp." The hound appeared equally rattled by their shared moment. "I'm just," he hesitated, making a wide arm gesture and struggling to invent some excuse. "Taking the little bird-" 

"I'll see to the lady," the imp was curt when he cut off the hound. Sansa would be more grateful if her savior was not a Lannister. "Go: find a tree to piss on." Lord Tyrion dismissed the hound and Sansa dared not glance towards him, but she pictured his cross frown easily. She kept her attention fixed on Lord Tyrion, only turning to watch the hound leave, not quite catching his eyes. Had she imagined what she saw...? What exactly had she seen?

"Thank you, my lord." Sansa's gratitude was rushed and impolite, considering Lord Tyrion rescued her. He was not the worst Lannister but still her enemy. In spite of the hound's dishonorable lecherous behavior, he still seemed a better friend than the imp. At least... a drunken hound was better company than a lion, even a small one.

"Lady Sansa," the imp called to her, she courteously faced him but wished he would just let her go already. He silently regarded Sansa, she could not tell if he was appreciating her beauty or trying to say something. She cared not either way, her mind swirling with thoughts of the hound. "Sleep well," the imp politely wished her goodnight.

Finally finished, he gave an awkward slight bow, Sansa turned and rushed to her chamber. Safely inside, she closed the door and rested against it to slow her still racing heart. The hound always stood too close, was too familiar, called her a pet name, and told her she was pretty. She should be horrified but found his lack of restraint somewhat... exciting. How silly is that?

Pushing off the door with a groan, she crossed the room and caught her bemused expression reflected in the mirror. She rather wanted to weep but her tears were already running dry when she ran into the hound. Her mind had no room for sadness when the hound unfailingly left her exasperated and confused. Three quick raps on the door snapped Sansa out of her musing.

"Come in," she meant to call out louder but the strength had long since left, along with her anger. Sansa preferred to crawl under her covers and sleep forever. The door opened and an attractive dark-haired woman wearing a handmaiden's dress stepped inside.

"Who are you?" Sansa felt certain she had never seen the person standing in the open doorway before. Her tied back hair fell in dark ringlets around her tanned face, framing high cheeks and deep-set eyes. She exhibited a distinct exotic quality that made her memorable.

"I'm Shae, my lady." The black-haired beauty stared directly at Sansa, not even bothering to curtsy. "Your new handmaiden." That immediately made her suspicious, was this servant a spy for the queen or Joffrey?

"I didn't know I needed a new handmaiden." Sansa looked the woman up and down, taking in her striking appearance and foreign accent. "You're not from here." Her observation was a meager ploy to gather information and 'Shae' did not look impressed.

"No." The servant stood in the doorway, staring at her lady and not doing anything useful. They stayed that way, lady and maid staring at each other, until Sansa finally broke the extended silence.

"What are you doing?" Sansa did not bother to hide her frustration, the awkwardness brought back some of the irritation the hound planted earlier. Why was everyone trying to drive her mad this night?!

"Waiting for you to tell me what to do." The woman was clearly no handmaiden... she must be a spy! Sansa felt the tears stinging her eyes, making her even more livid at feeling so hopeless.

"I shouldn't have to tell you to do things." Sansa knew she sounded like a sullen little girl but she did not care. "You should just do them." If whoever sent this woman set out to torture her, they had accomplished their goal.

"What things?" The servant had the audacity to sound annoyed with the lady she was supposed to be serving! This so-called 'handmaiden' must be simple not to at least pretend she understood what to do. The Lannisters must consider Sansa a fool if they thought she wouldn't notice this woman was a fake.

"Change my linens, wash my clothing! Scrub the floor, empty my chamber pot... brush my hair!" These tasks were entirely common knowledge. Explaining everything to some false maid was a humiliating waste of her time! Shae the 'handmaiden' turned to shut the door and walked to pick up the hairbrush from the vanity. "No!" Sansa puffed out a vexed groan. This imposter really was truly daft!

"You said to brush-"

"Not now!" Sansa was better off without a handmaiden if the woman was only going to aggravate her lady. It wasn't merely Shae's cluelessness that gave her away, the woman was too proud to be a servant. Only for an instant did the maid's expression slip, revealing her confidence to be a well-practiced act.

"Your chamber pot is empty." Shae's voice lost some of its defiance, outwardly resigning herself to the fate of playing servant to a spoiled young lady. Let her think what she wants!

"Clean the table." Sansa's voice was cool, holding back the tears brimming in her eyes from falling onto her cheeks. The woman replaced the brush on the vanity with a huff and strode to the table... to begin eating small bits of the leftover food! Her manners were so utterly ridiculous the situation would have been funny if it wasn't utterly insulting.

"Have you ever been a handmaiden before?" Sansa did not expect the truth but was frustrated and wanted to let Shae know she was onto her farce. The woman seemed entirely unconcerned with whether or not her lady believed her.

"Yes." Shae spoke with her mouth full, right in front of her lady, without even attempting to address Sansa properly!

"For whom?" She was not going to let the maid off so easily, this night had been too difficult to permit a lowly handmaiden to get the last word. Sansa had to tolerate Queen Cersei and the hound's taunts because they had more power than her... She was a lady and did not have to be mocked by a servant!

"Lady Zuriff." The morsels being chewed in Shae's mouth muffled her words.

"Lady Zuriff?" Sansa expected whatever answer she received was a lie, but at least Shae quit eating long enough to look at her lady when she spoke.

"Lady Zuriff." Shae was a practiced liar but it was too late to try to convince Sansa that she had ever been a maid of any kind.

"There is no Lady Zuriff in this city." Sansa was tired of these games, tired of this liar and her fake lady... just tired.

"She wasn't in this city." Shae was not going to stop until Sansa put the maid in her place!

"Well," she straightened her spine. "I don't know how they did things in that city, but in this city, handmaidens wait on ladies, not the other way around." Earlier she was brave enough to antagonize the intimidating hound but at the moment her voice faltered and eyes watered. "And I don't have time to answer a thousand questions and teach you how to do your job." Shae regarded her lady for a moment, looking her over thoughtfully.

"Do you want me to leave?" The woman spoke gently for once, seemingly moved by Sansa's emotional state. Who ever said tears were a weakness? Even if Shae was a spy... Sansa had nothing to hide so she might as well use the woman's service.

"Just brush my hair." Sansa sat at the vanity and Shae stood on her side, delicately lifted a lock of hair, and ran the brush through it. Being touched with gentleness made her urge to cry even stronger, especially after the hound's rough treatment. As her new handmaiden worked the tangles out of her hair, she allowed her mind to wonder about the confounding man who protected and frightened her.

Most recently, he lied for her at Joff's nameday tourney. The hound never lied... Surely, he had done so to shield her from the king's wrath. From that day, she saw the hound in a new light, grateful that he would risk lying for her. Deceitfulness obviously offended the hound, the man demanded blunt honestly to point of brutality. Yet, he lied for Sansa, asking nothing in return. Shae finished with her hair, assisted undressing her, and bid her lady goodnight as she left.

Finally! She ambled to her bed and fell flat on her face in a very unladylike fashion. Exhaustion and confusion over the hound battled for control of Sansa's mind. He saved her once with his handkerchief and protected her once with a lie, yet silenced any thanks she might give under his scornful stare. Before this night, he had never raised a hand against her but then... he had never looked at her with any softness either.

His earlier actions were intolerable, laying his hands on her and even shaking her! He did not strike her, yet drunkenness did not excuse his conduct. If anything, it made her more offended. Yet... he would not have hurt her, Sansa did not know exactly why she was so certain but she was. If the hound held some affection for her, no matter how small, he was the only one in Kings Landing who cared at all.

Sansa was no closer to understanding the hound's contradictory behavior when a memory cut through her contemplation. Days after her tenth nameday, Sansa sought her mother, wailing loudly that Theon pulled her hair. He was Robb's best friend and had always treated her as a beloved younger sister but all of a sudden started teasing her! Mother, so comforting and wise, explained boys sometimes acted that way when they thought a girl was pretty.

There were similarities between the way young Theon teased her long ago and how the hound treated her. However, the hound was a man, not a boy, and his rudeness possessed a hard edge that Theon's never had. Sansa was not a child who could go crying to her mother, and father was not here to give the hound a stern lecture. That last thought made her smile, imagining her father being very cross and the hound's sheepish abashment.

If she was honest with herself, Sansa had to admit she felt no desire to be rescued from the hound. He was mean, scary, harsh, and the only person in Kings Landing who helped her. 'I'm a dog, remember?' Yes, the hound was no true knight but he'd helped her all the same. After that last thought, she was lulled into a dream that fulfilled her heart's greatest wish... walking with her father through the halls of Winterfell.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/cold/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=175422133)

# Gendry

It was cold: colder than Gendry had ever been in his life. And wetter, every inch of his skin was freezing and wet. It had stopped pouring hours ago, easing to a drizzle, but the dirt and leaves that served as his bed were soaked. They had been walking for days through the forest and everything looked the same to him. Arry called him stupid and told him she was reading the stars, pointing up at a grouping of bright stars.

Gendry didn't see any 'Ice Dragon' when he looked up at the twinkling dots in the night sky. Arry told him that if they kept the Ice Dragon over their right shoulder they were heading in the correct direction. It'd been raining for nearly two days: they couldn't even see the stars! She pretended like she still knew where they were going but after a while of trudging in pouring rain, she gave up. They collapsed underneath a large tree but it did little to shield them.

"Don't fall asleep," she yawned, "just rest a bit while I keep watch?" Arry was obviously weary, trying to hide a yawn when she turned her head. Like him, she was soaked from head to toe, strands of her hair matted down over her hollowed face. Not only had they been sodden for two days but also they had to eat all of their dried rations to keep them from being ruined.

"We should both sleep," he argued halfheartedly. "We haven't seen anyone since we left: nothing but trees and rain." Gendry wished he didn't sound like a fussy child but he was so bloody hungry that he couldn't sleep despite being more tired than he'd ever been.

"Don't be stupid - we're not out of the Crownlands yet." Arry probably meant her insult to be biting but she sounded too damned tired to argue. "We have to keep our guard up until we reach the Blackwater Rush, then we can sleep."

"Why are we heading to the Blackwater Rush?" Gendry hated having to admit he didn't know much outside of Flea Bottom. "Don't we have to go around?"

"Don't you know anything?" Exhausted to the point where she couldn't keep her eyes open and Arry still managed to insult him. Chilled to the bone and miserable, he wanted to kick her, but was so tired that he could barely move a toe.

"Forgive me, milady," his own voice didn't sound any less childish than hers, which would have made him upset if he could feel his feet. They stopped hurting around midday and that worried him more than the shooting pain traveling from toe to shin with every step. "Not everyone was raised in a castle and taught by a Maester-"

"I wasn't!" How Arry had the endurance to yell was beyond him: Gendry was more tired just from hearing her make the effort. "I was taught by a Septa," she whispered, out of exhaustion or sadness he could not tell. "No one thought I should learn stars or maps, they thought I should know how to sew and sing."

"You sing?" He was teasing her but honestly: Gendry would like to hear a song from Arry. She gave an unladylike snort and chuckled.

"Not at all," Arry sighed and leaned her head back against the bark. "My younger brother, Bran, hated his studies - we used to sneak into Maester Luwin's workroom to look at his maps. We planned all the adventures we would go on when we grew up." Gendry wondered if she had started crying but was too weak to take care of a crying girl. "He never realized I wouldn't be allowed to go on any adventures." Gendry had to laugh at that claim.

"You are now, Arry!" It was true, wasn't it? They were on some bloody adventure, running for their lives. "How you liking it so far?" She was quiet for a moment and Gendry thought she might have fallen asleep, lucky girl. He was starting to get the feeling back in his feet: it felt like they were being pounded with hot anvils.

"It's wretched," she grumbled. "In all my plans I had a horse." Gendry barked out something between a laugh and a wheezing cough.

"A horse?" He tried to picture them riding through these dense woods, only slightly easier to imagine than how they would get the stags to pay for a horse. Gendry sighed and turned sideways to face Arry with great effort. "That's something else I've never done."

"What?!" Arya always sounded shocked whenever Gendry admitted he'd never done something. "You've never ridden a horse?"

"I'm a bastard blacksmith's apprentice," he was always too defensive, "when was I supposed to be riding horses?" He didn't want to start an argument, it seemed like that was all they ever did. Gendry sighed: if he didn't apologize, they were not going to speak again for a day. A day of Arry's silence was worse than any squabble.

"I'm not going to say 'I'm sorry' or take back calling you stupid," Arry spoke before he could. "I want you to know I don't look down on you because you're a bastard. I would never do that - you didn't ask to be born a bastard." Gendry felt a lump rising in his throat and tried to swallow it down before it seemed like he was crying. "Even though you are stupid, I couldn't do this without you." She turned away from him and Gendry closed his eyes, leaning back into the tree trunk. 

He started drifting to sleep when a repetitive clicking sound pulled him from the brink. At first, he thought it might be a bird pecking at some wood or water dripping onto a stone. Then he realized the sound was coming from his side: Arry's teeth were chattering. Without really thinking, he reached out to her, taking ahold of her thin shoulder, and turned Arya around to pull her into his arms. She pushed at his chest feebly and protested a bit before giving up the farce. 

He tried to relax, ignoring the fact that he was embracing a highborn maiden. The girl was just as frozen as him so he wouldn't care what is and isn't proper: they should take whatever comfort they could get. Her icy skin finally began to warm between with the combined heat their bodies. The tension in his weary muscles eased as the warmth from her small form spread through his chest. 

Gendry curled himself around Arya and felt her slip her slim legs between his, no longer shivering and equally greedy for comfort. She nuzzled her face into his neck and promptly fell asleep like a cuddly kitten. Gendry: parts of him were starting to wake up. Seriously now, in the icy rain, in a forest, with a highborn maiden? Sighing, he tucked her face under his chin and tilted his cheek against the top of her soggy hair. 

When she started snoring softly, Gendry smiled and bit back a chuckle as he gently tucked a tousled dark lock behind her ear. Sleep well, little lady. Mayhaps he was only a bastard blacksmith's apprentice who knew nothing about surviving or fighting but he could do this for her. He planned on keeping watch but fell asleep straight away.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/warm/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=175422761)

# Arya

She was warm - warm, and safe tucked in her furs - back in her own bed at Winterfell. Nymeria was practically lying on top of her so Arya shifted to get more comfortable. Strong arms pulled her tighter and Gendry mumbled a protest. Her eyes shot open as she remembered where she was and who she was with. The sun was up, the clouds finally parted, and Arya was completely entangled in a man's limbs.

At first she froze, startled by the tingling heat spreading over her skin wherever he touched her. Her breath came out in short pants, heart racing as her mind went blank. Arya wriggled again, trying to get Gendry to loosen his hold but it had the opposite effect. He pulled her tighter against him and hooked his leg behind her knees to curl his large frame around her. A restless sensation began to travel up and down her body.

Arya shifted and squirmed - not entirely trying to get free but more to relieve the trembling ache spreading through her. She managed to pull her hands free but then had nowhere to put them except around his waist. Breathing harder from the effort, she felt a firmness press against her stomach and she nearly shrieked as she realized what it was. She was confused, but admittedly did not know much about cocks.

Gently, going as slow as she possibly could, Arya tried again to disentangle herself from Gendry's grasp. Suddenly, his hand grabbed her waist as his hips pushed against her body while releasing a soft moan. The sudden action should have scared her but she never was a normal girl - the ache in her stomach shot straight between her legs. She gasped before returning his movement with a tentative thrust of her own.

Arya clutched the back of Gendry's tunic and crushed her chest against his hard muscled body. How could simply embracing a man be so good? She abruptly flew backwards into a pile of wet decomposing leaves - chilling the heat that had been smoldering between them. Gendry looked as if he'd seen a giant as he stared agape at her, his eyes wide and face pale. She blinked a few times and raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"I didn't mean-!" Gendry scrambled backward away from her - as if that would somehow undo what happened between them. As far as Arya was concerned, nothing really happened at all, they had not even kissed. It was only holding each other but warmish and tingly. "I was asleep. I'm so sorry, Arry!" He actually looked as if he might shed a few tears - she would have laughed if not for his obvious panic.

"It's nothing," she stood up to brush the dirt and dead leaves off of her breeches before walking over to the big dumb idiot. He stared at Arya, probably afraid of 'besmirching her honor' or some such nonsense. "No harm done - I was quite content." Gendry tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he released a deep breath and even chuckled a bit. She narrowed her gaze on his relaxed expression - was he mocking her?

"You're so young," he sounded a bit too smug for Arya's liking. "It's best if you don't understand." She smiled and approached him, offering a hand to help him to his feet. Gendry slipped his large hand between hers and she pulled a little too hard so that he stumbled into her.

"Oh, I understand, stupid." Arya's innocent smile turned into an evil grin as Gendry's relaxed expression fell from his face. "I know what a hard cock means." He pulled his hand out of hers like it burned him and staggered backwards, making her double over with laughter.

"You don't know anything, milady." Gendry turned around and crossed his arms with a huff. "Little highborn girls wouldn't know that a man gets hard in the morning, it's a natural thing."

"And you pushing your cock into my stomach," the sarcastic taunt fell from her tongue, "is that a 'natural' thing too?" Arya knew she was pushing too far when Gendry whirled towards her - fists clenched. Ha, he was just being stupid! She was not afraid of him, bucking her chin up to his and meeting his angry stare.

"Shut up, Arry." Gendry's voice was deadly low as his brows pulled together and he strode forward to stand in front of her. "Little highborn maidens shouldn't say such things," he lowered his face to hover over hers. His fury was obvious - as was his struggle to contain it. "Just keep your mouth shut." Arya did not want to find it funny to see how far she could push him, but it was - so very funny.

"Or else what?" Arya whispered, trying to feign fear but unable to stop grinning. "You're the one who brought up cocks in the first place. I never used to even think about cocks before I met you." Gendry's handsome face flushed red and a tiny vein stood out on his forehead, she had never seen him this angry before.

"For the love of the gods!" Gendry threw up his hands in defeat and spun around to storm away from Arya. "Please stop saying: 'cocks'." He whispered the last word, as if he was afraid to say it. He was never afraid to say 'cocks' or anything else before he found out she was a 'lady'! She hated how he treated her differently - even though he knew she was a girl before.

"Why?" Arya enjoyed teasing him but truthfully was curious, about Gendry, about cocks - about everything really. "Is it making your 'cock' hard?" He snapped his head to face her, his eyes darkening furiously.

"Bloody hells Arry!" He looked away quickly, running a hand over his face and then glaring at her once more. "You're acting like a child." Arya scoffed at his dramatic behavior, looking away from Gendry and clenching her fists.

"You're the one getting a hard cock over a child," she grumbled loud enough for him to hear. Gendry took off, walking quickly into the forest and away from Arya. "Wait!" She called out to him but he never even slowed his pace so she could catch up. "Gendry, where are you going?" Annoyed, she stopped chasing him and let out a frustrated huff. "Don't be like that - I was only having a bit of fun." Gendry did stop then.

"You've had it," his voice was cold - like a stranger - and it scared Arya. Gendry would not look at her, only stared straight ahead with a hard look on his face. Fearing he was leaving for good, she darted forward to grab his arm. "Let me go." At his hard voice, she felt her fingers weaken their grasp and slide from his wrist without her permission. All the fear buried deep inside her bubbled to the surface as he walked away.

"Where are you going?" Arya called after him but he gave no answer. "GENDRY!" She screamed his name but he did not look back even once. She simply watched him leave - like a fool - until his back disappeared into the trees. In the end, everyone left her, this time it was her own fault. Falling to her knees Arya wished she could cry, she had not cried since her father died. Curling on the ground, she didn't care it was wet and dirty.

When it fell dark, she got up and began to wander, just picking a direction and heading towards it. She wanted to call for him but her throat ache and no sound would come out. There was no moon or stars, just darkness and roots sticking up from the ground trying to trip her. 'This is a dream', she tried to tell herself - still the fear of being alone forever did not abide. Nobody would ever truly love such an ugly and mean girl.

"Here," his warm hand gently shook her shoulder to wake her. Arya sat up and rubbed her bleary eyes to focus on whatever Gendry was handing to her - it was a stick. "There's a fallen tree ahead and some of the branches on bottom were mostly dry." He pointed to a pile of other branches as she accepted the one he handed her. "Can we start a fire?" The wood felt like it just might be dry enough.

"I think so," she told him before looking up to meet his gaze. "I'll try." Arya took a deep breath and glanced away before apologizing "Gendry, I'm sor-"

"I'm sorry," he said at the same time. They both looked at each other with awkward half-smiles. "No, Arya, I'm sorry." Gendry crouched down on her level and ran his hand through his hair with a sigh. "I was ashamed and reacted badly." His gaze darted between looking at her and the pile of sticks and then back again. Sometimes his sheer stupidity amazed her - there was nothing for him to be sorry about.

"I was too," she confessed, surprised by the shyness in her own voice, "embarrassed I mean." Arya tilted her head to the side to keep his focus on her. "I could have tried to wake you but..." Possibly, for the first time in her life she started blushing. "I wanted to stay like that a little while longer - I liked it." Gendry's eyes flew open wide before squeezing shut.

"You shouldn't say that," he shook his head - voice strained and eyes still closed.

"Why not?" Arya couldn't help being always curious about everything - even when she knew she should let it go for her own good.

"You just shouldn't," he told her wearily before pinching his forehead and standing to walk over to the firewood he'd collected. "Why don't you tell me where we're headed from here?" Gendry seemed to want to move on from whatever happened between them this morning. Arya was slightly disappointed, but decided to focus on their survival. She forced herself to push aside the memory of his body surrounding hers.

"I'm almost sure we are going in the right direction," Arry walked over to help him set up the fire. "I need to see the night sky for sure. For now, we should try to find some food and rest until nightfall so we can travel in darkness. We haven't seen anyone yet but that does not mean we are safe." They needed to travel as far from the Lannister army as possible, they certainly would have scouts in these woods.

"Tell me what you need me to do." Gendry knew little about surviving in the wilderness but he never backed down from any task Arya gave him. She grinned at her friend, more than willing to let there be peace between them again. Like most men, Gendry has a sensitive ego and is prone to emotional outbursts. At least he had the strength of a bull as well as the mind - in that way, at least he was somewhat useful.

"This is enough for now," she tried to sound appreciative. "We need a fire to get dry and cook whatever food we can find. Do you remember what I taught you about the tree with long needles for leaves and dark, flaky bark?" Along their journey Arya had pointed out every edible plant she recognized - which were not many.

"Winter trees," he correctly identified by her description, "their thin needle leaves can be boiled into a broth and their cones have nuts at the core." Gendry recited her lesson almost word-for-word and Arya was actually a bit proud of her student.

"Keep your eyes and ears open for the sound of water," she reminded him - they were always looking for a stream that might connect to the Blackwater Rush. "Head in the other direction, but don't go too far and try not to get lost again." Arya grinned as Gendry shrugged his shoulders and started walking into the woods - this time with only his usual annoyed expression. He was frowning, but she knew it was only to hide his smile.

"That only happened one time," he called back over his shoulder. "But I don't want milady to worry, so I'll stay close by." For just a second, fear tightened her stomach again - that he might leave and never come back. Arya shook her head and set about making a fire to dry them both and cook over. Gendry was coming back, he would not leave her. She silently vowed to try harder to not annoy him - and never talk about cocks again.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/dawn/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=175423144)

# Robb

He opened his eyes though he really did not want to and turned to see Merry sleeping soundly by his side. She certainly took her wifely duties seriously, waiting up for him even when he stayed in his command tent until the wee hours of the morning. Despite being exhausted, married life agreed with him: every day he looked forward to spending his nights with his wife.

Suppressing a groan, he pushed the thick coverlet down and the chill covered his skin with goosebumps. The floor felt even colder under his feet but he forced himself to get out of bed as quietly as he could. Robb dressed quickly, managing to ready himself for the day without waking Merry. Before heading out of the room, he cast one last look at his wife and felt a twinge of regret.

He crept towards her side of the bed, deciding to give her a goodbye kiss. Robb pressed his lips to her forehead and she stirred, lifting her hands to hold his shoulders and urging him down for a proper kiss. The day's duties melted away from his mind as she tightened her hold on him, pulling him on top of her. Her warm and soft body tempted him to crawl back under the covers and renounce his kingship forever.

Alas, there is a war on and somehow he became a king in command of an entire army. His bannermen were eager to leave The Twins and continue south to Riverrun where they can gain more support from the Houses of the Riverlands. They grew tired of his endless strategizing yet the deaths of his men were not on their shoulders. Losing to the Lannisters is not an option: he needed justice for his father.

"I have to go," he murmured against her lips.

"Hmm," she released him with a sigh and he pushed up off the bed. "I will wait for you tonight, husband." Her sleepy voice nearly unraveled his resolve to proceed with the duties of the day. Why do so many men desire a crown? It is nothing but endless obligation as far as he could tell. A good king should not resent his responsibility, not when so many depended on him for their freedom.

"I look forward to it, wife." Robb smiled, watching her pull the cover over her shoulders and curl up to fall back asleep. He envied her: and the blankets covering her nude form. After this war, he vowed to spend at least a week in bed, huddled under the furs with his wife. Dawn broke between the curtains of their chamber: he was already late for the meeting with his bannermen.

He left the room and made his way out of the castle to the courtyard in front of the bridge, where a saddled horse waited for him. After the ride into camp he greeted some of his men, letting them know he still considered himself one of them. Eventually he made it to the command tent: as usual, nervousness tightened his stomach. He drew in a deep lungful of air, held it for a moment before exhaling slowly, and straightened his spine before he entered. 

"Forgive my tardiness," he approached the table and took a seat at the head. All of his bannermen, with the notable exception of Lord Bolton, remained standing out of respect until Robb was seated.

"That's alright, Your Grace." The Greatjon grinned knowingly and Robb prayed to the gods that his beard covered his heated cheeks. "We were all young newlyweds once."

"Soon enough you'll be losing sleep over your children," Maege Mormont smiled as well. Robb felt like a boy being patronized by the adults rather than a king surrounded by his loyal bannermen.

"Gods willing," Rickard Karstark echoed. Robb could not even think of adding more children to his family when he could not protect his own siblings.

"The men are prepared to move, Your Grace." Greatjon seemed to notice Robb's discomfort and turned his attention to matters of war. The man looked tired, having spent the last fortnight training new recruits: more came from the north every day. "Also, Lord Frey has decided to give us another wagon of rations."

"That was generous of my goodfather." Robb still did not trust the man, which is why he still held every council meeting and his command tent. Besides, it was good for the men to see their king working diligently on the war effort instead of hiding in a castle.

"This is the route we discussed but I have some concerns about the weather." The Greatjon indicated to the map on the table. "It's turning colder and these marshes towards the west will be bloody cold." He slid his finger around the paper to indicate the source of his worry. "Here's the way around, take about a week or two more at most."

"Or cut Tywin's march by two weeks," Roose Bolton pointed out. Robb hated to agree with the man but he did have a point. "He could be marching to meet the other half of his army as we speak. Heading west might deliver our men right into the lion's paws."

"I thought of that," Lord Umber scowled at the other man, "we could sent scouts out further than usual." He turned back to Robb, his grizzled face lined with worry. "Sickness and war don't mix, Your Grace."

"Tonight, send out your fastest men ahead of our forces," Robb commanded in his most kingly tone. "I will leave it to your judgment, Lord Umber."

"Might I suggest here," Galbart Glover pointed to the map, "as well."

"Can we spare the men?" Robb directed the question to The Greatjon.

"Of course we can't," the older man smile good-naturedly, "but I agree we should."

"Do it," Robb ordered and the older man nodded in agreement. Regret plagued him since he sent Theon south with Ser Cassel, especially as they heard no word from the men. It might have been better to use Theon to gain an alliance with the Ironborn. Lord Greyjoy would not likely want to negotiate with men from Houses who tamed his rebellion. "What's next?" All began to talk at once, already bringing on a headache. "One at a time! Lady Mormont, go ahead."

"As I was saying, Your Grace." She launched into a lengthy diatribe about the condition of their men due to the lack of healers and proper food. Everything she said was true: problems he already knew of but had no solutions. Gods willing, they would make it to Riverrun with most of their army in good health. Other than prayer, Robb had not a clue what to do about the lack of care for his men! It was going to be another long day.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/midnight/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=175425048)

# Merry

When Robb entered the chamber, he lingered in the doorway for a moment before walking in and shutting the door. Merry dashed the tears off her cheeks and adopted a studious interest in the parchment in front of her. Oh phooey! He must have hesitated because he noticed her crying. She turned away to blow out the candle and patted her face with her palms before facing her husband. 

"Merry," he stepped inside the room towards her, "I-"

"Long day," Merry cut him off before he could even start, "my lord?" Robb clearly intended to bring up the weeping and ruin what little time they had together. She moved around the desk, straightening up without cause and avoiding looking at him. He was quiet, apparently not knowing what to say. Welcome to my reality, Your Grace.

"The longest," he answered with a weary sigh. Robb sank onto the bed and bent to remove his boots as she hurried to help him. Merry knelt before her husband to unbuckle the leather straps. "I understand it's hard to leave home, if you'd prefer to stay-"

"You have no idea, do you?" She jerked off his boot with more force than necessary, stood, and threw it to the stone floor behind her. Robb's horrified expression made her blood freeze in her veins. What did she just do?! The careful containment of her temper dissipated without warning! Merry spun away and focused on the crackling fire. "I did not mean that," she internally cursed her quaking voice.

"I think you did," he said after a silent stretch. "I must have been fooling myself, thinking I was being a good husband to you." Robb leaned forward and seized her wrist, tugging her back to face him. "I'm sorry I could not spend the customary week in our chambers. The war demands much of my time-"

"Have I complained about that?" Merry wrenched her hand out of his light grasp and hugged herself around the waist. 'I will not cry', she chanted inwardly. Why did she suddenly lose the control over her emotions that she built over a lifetime?

"You haven't complained about anything," annoyance crept into his voice. "Which is why I don't know what's wrong." Robb's argument was not fair! What could she tell him if they never spoke? Then again, this is exactly the kind of marriage she anticipated... even hoped for. A few stolen moments of passion were better than most wives should expect and it was unreasonable to hope for their relationship to be more.

"Perhaps instead of apologizing for things you think are wrong, why not ask me?" Merry turned to face him and saw candid confusion on his features. Clearly, it never even occurred to him that she might be unhappy or perhaps he simply did not care. "You must realize that you did not once tell me I was going to Riverrun?" She sighed and put her hands to her hips. "I only knew to pack because your mother sent a servant to help me, before she left."

"I never told you? I'm sure I said-" Robb narrowed his brows and looked at the boot she had thrown. "Oh gods: Merry, forgive me," his eyes found hers again, full of remorse that Merry could not quite trust. "I even forgot to ask if you wanted to go."

"Will you continue south, after you meet the Lannister forces in the west?" She averted her eyes, worried he would wonder how she knew of his battle plans.

"I intend to come straight back to Riverrun," his pleading eyes turned up at her. "Which is why I'm sending you ahead: I want you waiting for me. You will be safe there with my mother's family, I already have men keeping guard over the castle. Honestly," his dark lashes turned down, "I wish I could take you west with me."

"Truly?" Merry's surprise was genuine and even happy until the actual meaning of his words sunk in... He would miss her body warming his bed. Once, that thought would have been thrilling but now it seemed worse than being in a frigid marriage. What is passion without love? Misery, apparently. "I am grateful my lord husband is so pleased with me," even she heard the bitterness dripping from her voice.

"Don't say it like that," he protested. "I don't want you calling me 'lord' or 'your grace'. I need to be 'just Robb' when it's only the two of us." Merry was not the least bit touched by his apparent sincerity, something she fell for the first time they met. Of course, that day he promised to let her speak her mind, knowing they would never had time to speak! Not that she insisted... unwilling to refuse him whenever he came to their marriage bed.

"I don't know 'just Robb' very well." Her life seemed like a dream, in that she often felt confused as to what was 'real'. Each night since she became his wife he fulfilled her every licentious fantasy and more she never conceived of, then always disappeared by the morning. He was little more than a stranger to her! "This is the longest conversation between us since our wedding night."

"I've been an ass, haven't I?" Robb ran a hand through his hair and stared at the floor. Merry knew not what to expect when she wed a lord who was waging a war but she did not even feel married. A spot of blood on the sheets and spending her nights in his bed did not make her his wife. Or was she merely another foolish girl, dreaming of an unrealistic romance? "I come in here at all hours, waking you up. You don't have to feel duty-bound to accept me-"

"Hogwash, I want to accept you!" She tilted her chin down and squeezed her eyelids shut, balling two fistfuls of her shift. "Only... I wish we could converse with each other at least once a day. It feels so lonely to fall asleep next to you and wake up alone..." When she opened her eyes she saw lust in his, roaming over her desirously. How was she supposed to think with his wicked gaze stealing her wits? A tremor ran through her body and he noticed.

"Are you cold, wife?" Robb knew very well that her shivering had nothing to do with being chilled. The fire in the chamber kept the room comfortably warm. She looked down at herself to see the firelight made the nightshift near transparent. His distraction was also distracting for her and completely melted her resolve to talk with her husband.

"I am not cold," she admitted quietly, taking a step closer to him. Robb reached out to tug her shift between two fingers and ran them along the length of the garment. Merry could admit her weakness: she could take this time to talk to her husband and know him better. Instead, one heated look from his dark grey eyes was all it took for her to completely forget her intentions. 

"Merry-" He started to say something but she feared quarreling again so she put a finger to his lips and stepped between his legs. Sooner or later, he would not stand for being interrupted so often.

"Hush," she whispered. Merry unclasped his cloak and let it fall from his shoulders. "Take me with you," the command slipped out but she did not regret it. Then he stayed quiet, just looking up with an unreadable expression. Mayhaps it would be better if they never spoke at all, passion can be enough. 

"It's dangerous," his hands circled around her waist to draw her nearer.

"Life is dangerous," she countered. "If you truly wish me to stay by your side... that is what I want."

"Alright," he nodded, "you cannot take as many things-" She dipped her lips to his, cutting off his permission with a hungry kiss. Merry could have bet her life he would deny her... he truly must care about her! The guilt over her earlier outburst was pushed aside, a blessed woman should not complain. Robb was noble, good, kind, generous, brave, and more than handsome. In her own defense, how could she not want his heart as well? 

His warm hands slid up the backs of her thighs and he groaned upon discovering she wore nothing beneath her shift. Their mouths separated as he leaned away to untie the collar of his tunic, pulling it off and tossing it aside. No matter how many times she saw Robb's sculpted form it made her heart race. Surely, the gods must have molded him specifically to be irresistible. 

Even more wondrous, this gorgeous man desired her... the hesitation she felt on her wedding night already seemed a distant memory. Merry lifted the nightdress over her head and dropped it behind her. Her husband hummed approvingly, admiring her body with naked appreciation. Merry smiled at his enthusiasm and bent to attempt the laces of his breeches. Her efforts were thwarted most effectively when he wrapped his hands around her waist to haul her on top of him. 

It was hardly fair, as he was still half-dressed! Her husband chuckled as she squirmed in his hold in a halfhearted attempt to escape, more trying to get every inch of her bare skin touching his. His hands roamed over her heated skin and she began to tremble from the force of her desire as his palms slid up around her hips. He turned them both, so that they lay on their sides facing each other, and bowed his head kiss the sensitive spot he discovered on her neck. 

She slipped a hand down between their bodies to tug loose the laces of his breeches. Robb hissed and pulled back when she freed his manhood. He leaned back to look at her, propping up on one elbow, and wrapped a hand around his manhood. Merry tutted playfully and tapped his knuckles to replace his hand with her own and lightly squeezed. It escaped her understanding for so long, why men were so proud of the phalluses. 

Other men were likely overly proud yet her husband seemed unaware of the awe his manhood instilled. In her hand, it gave her complete power over him while inside her it gave her indescribable pleasure. What a wondrous appendage, and so much more interesting than books led her to believe. She slowly pumped the length, glancing up to see him flushed and watching her hand intently. When he looked up, their eyes met... 

His dark eyes glowed with desire, perhaps a glimpse of the 'wolf' the rumors said he transformed into on the battlefield. He growled as he pushed up from the bed to remove his breeches before turning to face her, his eyes still thrillingly dangerous. Robb reached out to push her down onto the mattress and then his fingers moved lower to grip behind her knees to drag her towards him. 

She panted a laugh, clutching his forearms as he grabbed her hips and pulled her all the way to the edge of the edge. The breathy laugh became a moan when he settled himself between her thighs and her womanhood pressed flush along his hardness. He raked an admiring glance over her trembling body, sending an overwhelming wave of longing through her to feel him surrounding her. 

As his lips claimed hers, she tilted her head back and curved her body to fit his. Robb moaned as he sheathed himself into her, rousing sparks of incredible sensations scattering through her body. He pushed all the way inside and stilled, his strong hands gripped the tender flesh of her legs. Since their wedded night, small bruises decorated her skin and for once, she felt thankful that her pale complexion bruised easily. 

The light purple marks served as proof, confirming her marriage to foolish daylight doubts. Every so often, Merry questioned if this was her real life because it felt so dreamlike... He rocked once against her, drawing a muted groan from her as she lifted her hips to meet his slow thrust. Robb moved leisurely within her, rocking at a steady pace with his eyes closed and forehead furrowed from restrained effort. 

Her eyes drank him in, watching his muscles twitch and flex from his effort to treat her with tenderness. A dark silky curl fell into his face, bouncing on his brow from the slow motion of his lovemaking. By the gods, was there ever a more beautiful man? His gentleness both touched and frustrated her, tonight and every night she wanted as much passion as he was willing to give. Gods only know how much time anyone has, especially a rebel king and his queen. 

"Please Robb," the words came out as a begging moan. Merry tightened her fingers around his forearms, locked her legs around his knees, and twisted her hips against him in attempt to draw him deeper. Robb Stark, surely the most wicked man who ever lived, gave a shameless laugh at her plea. Still chuckling, he pulled a hand free from her grasp to caress his fingers down over her stomach, pausing when he reached the blond curls at the junction of her thighs. 

"Tell me what you want, wife." His voice was throaty with self-satisfaction as he smirked at her with hooded eyes. How could he tease her when she felt as though she might burst into flames? She writhed under his touch and bucked against him, pleading nonsense that even she could not understand. Robb brushed one hand teasingly through the curls, tantalizing and tormenting her without mercy.

Finally, his fingers dipped lower to stroke her womanhood and she wailed in response to the light brushing over her sensitive flesh. He buried his hardness deeper into her as he teased her slick flesh more insistently and Merry threw her head back to let out a wanton cry. Her body twisted and writhed as she crying out her pleasure louder with every thrust of his manhood.

Oblivious to everything but her own need, the sudden pulsing rush of his release sent her over the blissful brink. Robb let out a strained groan trembling as he continued pumping into her. Exhausted, he slumped forward to rest his forehead on her chest and his panted breath chilled the slight sheen of sweat covering her skin. Merry's heart constricted pleasantly when he pressed small kisses to her collarbone.

When he removed himself, it was always a little bittersweet and Merry wished he could stay coupled with her. Of course, that was impossible... a king must not waste away making love to his wife. Robb sighed wearily as he walked over to fetch a small towel to clean the evidence of their coupling. She raised her legs up together so that her knees rested under her chin, in the conceiving pose she read about.

'You'll need to get a son in your belly right away,' her lord grandfather told her before the wedding. 'That's the way to secure our house and your position. Don't disappoint me, noisy, you've done well this far.' It was strange how much the man terrified her because he was also her closest family. Merry doubted she would miss him or The Twins, it never felt like a home - too cold and gloomy.

"I'm sorry, Merry," Robb's roguish grinning face broke through her dark thoughts. "You look ridiculous when you do that." Merry scowled and harrumphed at her husband.

"Perhaps you would like to sleep in your own seed, husband?" She feigned annoyance and hoped he did not catch the lie of omission in her jape. "Men are such queer creatures." In truth, this odd pose was going to help them have an heir as soon as possible. She was certain having a child would change everything between them, for better or worse. Nonetheless, it was her duty, was it not?

"As usual, wife, you are right." He smiled, running his laughing eyes over her crunched form and handed her the cloth. Merry cleaned herself as Robb collapsed on his side with a sigh, shifting the mattress slightly. "You'll be the death of me, woman. How will I be able to fight a war when you steal all of my strength?"

"I did not steal it, husband, only borrowed for a while." Merry beamed at his drooping eyelids and kissed his bearded cheek. "You shall find your manly strength returned to you at dawn's first light." She leaned forward to get up and add the rag to the soiled clothing to be washed when he stopped her arm with his hand. Robb filched the fabric and tossed it over the side of the bed.

"Stay," he demanded as he gathered her in his embrace. Merry turned towards him, pushing back his damp curls from his forehead with a light touch. She tugged on his arm to coax him to lay in a proper position and secured the covers over both of them. Robb was half-asleep already when he drew her into his loose hug and promptly fell into a deep sleep. She watched his calm countenance, thanking and cursing the gods at once.

The Seven had given her everything she wanted in a husband. Robb was too perfect, and she could feel herself falling more in love with him every day. How utterly cruel. A fine-looking and virile man could never be satisfied with a boring lady who spent her life cooped up in a gloomy castle. Someday there would be another woman for every husband took a mistress in time. How long would these flashes of ecstasy last... when they already are not enough?

'You've done well...' Her grandfather's mocking voice stayed in her head as Robb's breathing slowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'What is Dead May Never Die' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> ## In my dictionary, the opposite of dissatisfaction is gratitude.
> 
>   * I am grateful to have two working hands to type with.
>   * I am grateful for my impeccable playlist creating abilities: it is known.
>   * I am grateful that I exist despite/because of the unfathomable randomness of life.
> 

> 
> ♩ We are the champions, my friends... ♪


	6. Kings and Monsters

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/healer/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176247503)

# Robb

He walked through the empting battleground, trying to block out the distant screams as death assaulted all of his senses. Lord Roose Bolton was prattling some nonsense about brutalizing prisoners and Robb wished to get away from the man. The Battle of Oxcross was a crushing victory, fulfilling his promise to deliver 'another Whispering Woods'. Triumph did not make him feel glad: he barely felt anything.  
  
"Please!" A man was shouting on the field, begging as two women shushed him. "No, don't! No, don't, please!" The Silent Sisters tended to both Stark and Lannister wounded, Robb thought that was a very noble thing to do. Drawing closer, he could see that the man's leg was badly infected and the sisters were going to amputate.  
  
"Shh," the young unveiled woman tried to calm the injured man and then she addressed the veiled sister. "The rot's set in." Her voice was grim and even Robb could tell from his distance that the leg had to go.  
  
"Please, don't!" The young soldier continued to beg uselessly, unable to accept what had to be done. "It'll get better. It doesn't even hurt."  
  
"The rot will spread," she explained composedly. "If we don't take the foot now-"  
  
"No, you can't!" The young man, more of a lad, struggled and looked around before his eyes fell on Robb. "Ser!" The boy's ongoing begging was directed at Robb, drawing the healer's focus. Her brief glance sucked all the air from his lungs and he suddenly felt compelled to help. "Please ser," the young man continued to plead pitifully. Robb walked over and knelt beside the young woman, it did not seem like she was a sister after all since she did not wear a veil. "I can't lose-"  
  
"You'll die if she doesn't," he told the young man sadly. This was not what he sought: lads lying in the mud, crying, and being mutilated. Robb just wanted his sisters back, to take his family home, and keep them safe.  
  
"I don't want to be a cripple, please," the lad begged miserably. No amount of begging would change his fate, this was necessary or he would die simple as that.  
  
"Surely one of our men needs your attention more than this cub." Bolton could be heartless but that was nothing new: the man had just been recommending torture. Robb ignored the dour lord but the young healer by his side lifted her head.  
  
"Your men are not my men, my lord." The lady had spirit! Of course she did, to be able to do this kind of gruesome healing. How does a woman find herself in a battlefield, sawing off legs?  
  
"Put this in your mouth and lie down: you don't want to watch." Robb held the boy as he tried to protest again. "Bite on it!" He shoved the rag into the lad's mouth as he screamed. "It's better than biting your own tongue, believe me." The rag muffed the lad's screaming as the sawing began. The woman possessed obvious skill and surprising strength that seemed to come from experience.   
  
She made short work of the leg and took advantage when the soldier passed out to seal the end of the stump and then called for a wagon. After the fierce healer helped the newly crippled boy onto the cart, she gave Robb another intense look and then turned away. For some reason her dismissal stung, he didn't want to part without speaking at least a few words with her. He followed the woman, hoping to ease her dislike of him.  
  
"What's your name?" Robb had never met a woman like this previously, covered in dirt and blood and so full of courage. Even though she filthy: she was beautiful. Little Arya would be fascinated by this woman, who braved the battlefields and did not shy away from the gore.  
  
"Talisa," she told him without looking up, bent down on the muddy earth and organizing her tools in a small box.  
  
"Your last name?" Robb needed to know where this intriguing woman came from and who she was.  
  
"You want to know what side my family fights on?" Talisa's query was tinged with annoyance and Robb softened his voice, hoping to ease any hard feelings she had towards him.  
  
"You know my family name," he smiled, "you have me at a disadvantage-"  
  
"That boy lost his foot on your orders," she retorted with a hard edge to her voice, still refusing to look up at him while finishing her task.  
  
"They killed my father," he clarified to her tightly. Surely, she knew why the war was raging: that he wasn't the one who started all of this. She looked up then, her expression made him think off all the times he was in trouble and his father would look at him the same way.  
  
"That boy did?" Talisa's question was obviously meant to mock him.  
  
"The family he fights for." Robb felt himself shrinking under her judgment, even though she was still crouched on the ground.  
  
"Do you think he's friends with King Joffrey?" Talisa scoffed and furrowed her brow at Robb. "He's a fisherman's son that grew up near Lannisport," she explained while closing the packed box. "He probably never held a spear before they shoved one in his hands a few months ago-"  
  
"I have no hatred for the lad," he told her. Robb didn't know why he felt the need to defend his actions to this interesting lady: she affected him in a way he'd never experienced. She stood and sighed, giving him an appraising look up and down and appearing disappointed.  
  
"That should help his foot grow back." Talisa's dark jape left him stunned as she walked away. How could she hold him personally responsible for every lad who lost his foot? Religious women never approved of war: they never understood the need for it.  
  
"You'd have us surrender," he followed, "end all this bloodshed: I understand." Robb didn't like this woman making him feel inferior while he was a bloody king and war hero. "The country would be at peace and life would be just under the righteous hand of good King Joffrey."  
  
"You're going to kill Joffrey?" Talisa stood next to a cart and washing her bloody hands from a jug of water. Her question seemed sincere enough so Robb decided to give her an honest answer.  
  
"If the Gods give me strength." He prayed every night for the chance to kill Joffrey Baratheon: or Lannister, whatever he was.  
  
"And then what?" This lady: in one conversation, she saw right to the heart of him and tore him apart.  
  
"I don't know," he responded quietly and she turned back to face him, using a rag to dry her hands. "We'll go back to Winterfell. I have no desire to sit on the Iron Throne."  
  
"So who will?" Talisa seemed incredulous, Robb could not tell if it was because he did not want the throne for himself or his admission that he did not seem to care who sat on it.  
  
"I don't know," he admitted.  
  
"You're fighting to overthrow a king, and yet you have no plan for what comes after?" She gave him a dubious look before she turned and hiked up her skirt to hop into the cart.  
  
"First, we have to win the war." Robb thought it was a perfectly reasonable justification for his lack of plan but Talisa gave him that look again: like she was dissatisfied. "You never told me where you're from," he called as the cart rolled away.  
  
"Volantis," she replied, surprising him. Talisa's voice was still cold but not quite as hard as earlier.  
  
"Volantis? You're far from home." Robb watched as the wagon moved away and wondered if this were the last time he would see Lady Talisa. "The boy was lucky you were here," he called, hoping to leave her with a final decent impression.  
  
"He was unlucky that you were." Talisa called her last words from the back of the moving cart, leaving him dazed from their encounter as a smile pulled on his lip. A twinge of guilt reminded him that he was married, in truth, he had completely forgotten about his wife the moment he saw Talisa. Shaking his head, Robb tried to clear his thoughts, heading back to camp. There was no need to feel guilty about the war or his wife: he hadn't done anything wrong.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/rush/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176312329)

# Arya

It was the coldest evening yet and the journey had taken its toll on them by the time the sun started to sink. Her misery disappeared when Arya grabbed the sleeve of Gendry's tunic to stop and listen. He heard it too, grinning at her before grasping her hand in his own and breaking into a run. They sprinted towards the gushing sound, laughing noisily but too happy to care. Finally, the mighty Blackwater Rush appeared as the trees thinned, they ran right up to the bank before collapsing.  
  
He fell back on his arse and Arya knelt with a little more grace, but not much. They rested to catch their breaths, basking in the knowledge that tonight they would sleep - truly sleep. She had not closed her eyes for more than a few hours a day since that rainy night in the woods. No matter how cold it got, Gendry never laid a finger on her at night. His distance might have annoyed her but she knew it was for the best.  
  
They argued less since that morning when whatever happened between them happened. Gendry also called her by her real name more often and for some reason she liked it. His southron accent made him pronounce it incorrectly but Arya still thought it sounded nice. When he was annoyed he would slip back into calling her 'Arry', and she started using that to remind herself to be less - well, less like herself.   
  
"We made it," his voice was full of awe, as if he thought they would never make it this far. "All I want to do is sleep but I'm wide awake now." Gendry grinned and leaned up on one elbow to face her, puffs of his breath were visible in the frosty air. "You ever going to tell me how we're getting to that island you talked about?" Arya did not like to say much about her plans beyond a few days - in case they had to change.   
  
"Now we head north," she told him as she crawled to his side, lying down dangerously close. Arya saw Gendry tense and start to pull away but she distracted him by drawing a circle in the sandy dirt between them. "We'll travel to the Gods Eye Lake and cross it to the Isle of Faces - no one would ever look for us there." As she spoke, she drew another smaller ring inside the first before adding a tail to the bottom of the larger circle.   
  
"Isle of Faces?" Gendry frowned down at her drawing, cocking his head to the side in confusion.  
  
"Here is where we are," Arya pointed at the tail and glanced up to see if he was paying attention. "We'll travel up the Blackwater Rush until we reach the lake, then we can find a ferry to the isle." She sat up, wiping her hands on her breeches. "Only holy men live there, they keep the Old Gods and are descended from the First Men, like my family. I think they will help us."   
  
"You mean," his eyes darkened as they usually did when he felt upset. "They'll help a lady of House Stark." Gendry inhaled sharply and sat up as well, noticeably embarrassed by his senseless hostility. Arya was in no mood to argue so she bit her usually haughty tongue to wait for his mood to pass. Since they've been together, she learned his anger was quick to rise but also swift to cool. "What kind of help can they give?"   
  
"Anything," she felt relieved when his curiosity won over his sullenness. They did not have many allies - any aid the holy men gave could mean the difference between life and death. "I hope - perhaps they can find a way to contact my grandfather at Riverrun. The Tully motto is 'Family, Duty, Honor'. He will find a way to keep me safe and my mother might be there." Arya missed her mother so much that it hurt to think of her.   
  
"What is this isle like?" Gendry was always questioning her about the world, probably because he knew almost nothing. Little by little, Arya started to feel guilty - her most hated emotion - about growing up in a castle with loving parents. A bastard and an orphan, he grew up without bedtime legends about the realm he lived in. She came to realize he wasn't stupid - he never had anyone to teach him.   
  
"I've only heard stories." Arya hoped he wouldn't think she had taken leave of her senses. "My Nan used to tell me the Green Priests learned magic from the Children of the Forest. They do more than worship the Old Gods as northerners do - they commune with them. The Isle of Faces is where the Pact was made between the Children of the Forest and the First Men." Gendry's face was confused but he saved his questions.   
  
"It is said," she kept the most unbelievable part for last. "The isle is blessed by the Old Gods, where wise men used to journey to become Greenseers." Arya breath seized in her chest, waiting for Gendry to explode at her for leading him on this childish adventure. He only looked more bewildered than before, narrowing his brows and cocking his head to one side. She nodded, encouraging him to ask his questions and he sighed in relief.   
  
"What's a 'green seer'?" Gendry wasn't making this easy for Arya, describing the process of Greensight to a southroner made her feel unusually anxious. She mulled the question over in her head for a moment before deciding to just tell him as plainly as possible - and hope he would not mock her.   
  
"Greensight happens when the gods want to tell you something." Arya sighed at Gendry's raised eyebrow and expression of disbelief. Southroners always think the northern gods are a bad jape at best - uncivilized at worst. "They show you the future, inside the hearts of others, and even inside your own heart."   
  
"Sounds scary." Gendry still seemed confused but Arya was grateful he did not try to change her mind about where to go. She had thought about where they would be safe more than a thousand times, this was the least dangerous route because it was so unlikely. No one ever went to the Isle of Faces so they would not be found there. "How'd you know so much about these Green Priests?"   
  
"Bran and I planned to come to the Isle of Faces and meet the Green Priests." Arya sought to lighten the tense mood that had settled over them. Gendry often asked her about Winterfell and her family. "So we tried to learn the Old Tongue because some legends say the priests do not speak the Common Tongue. As for the isle, I only know faces were carved into every weirwood on the island."   
  
"Glad you didn't tell me everything before, Arry." Gendry flopped onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head to gaze up at the stars. "It all sounds like a bunch of horseshit." Arya rolled her eyes at his hardheaded exasperation, leave it to the bull to ruin her optimistic attitude. "But: I don't have a better plan so I'll keep following you, milady." She crawled over her drawing to pin one arm on each side of his chest.   
  
"Your faith in me is touching," she expected him to be annoyed by her dry retort and try to shove her off - it was nighttime after all. Instead, he simply looked hopelessly up at her. Why would he be unhappy? Arya expected anger, even resentment - but sadness? Was he that disappointed in her? "Gendry-?"   
  
"Would you miss me, Arry?" Gendry's quiet question surprised her almost as much as the desperate tears that sprung to his blue eyes. "Would you miss me when I'm gone?" Gone - where in the seven hells did he think she would go without him? Arya scoffed at the foolish bull lying underneath her.   
  
"Don't be stupid-" Arya's words cut off as Gendry suddenly crushed her to his chest, trapping her arms by his sides. She was shocked but pleased - ever since she woke up in his embrace, she wanted to feel it again. Why was he being so foolish? Of course, they would not be separated! He was part of her pack now and she would not lose anyone else. "You're not going anywhere without me, dumb bull."   
  
"Whatever you say, milady." Gendry's voice was gruff, as if he was trying not to cry. Arya wriggled, struggling to see his face but he held her still with his strong arms. "Stay," he whispered with a strangely gentle tone, "let me keep you like this." A thrill ran up Arya's spine as she relaxed on top of his warm body. She nodded against his chest - distrusting her own voice to be steady.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/riverbank/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176222375)

# Gendry

He lay awake, though he felt tired enough, thinking about the girl he held. In a short time, Arya had worked her way into his life and somehow made herself the center of it. Everything he did, every thought he had, revolved around her somehow. She was just a girl, a highborn maiden: so far above him that he should not even dream of holding her. After waking up with her that morning, it became difficult to see her as 'just a girl'.  
  
Gendry was a man grown but he'd never woken with a warm body in his arms before. An apprentice got two hot meals a day and a bed to sleep in and should be thankful for it. He never had coin for whores: probably would have spent it on food if he did. Lowborn girls were nearly as cautious about their maidenheads as highborn and he never met many girls at the forge anyway. Arya was the first girl he wanted to be 'his'.  
  
None of that mattered: she was going to leave him and join her noble grandfather at his castle and he would try to find work somewhere. He should just consider himself lucky that he got to embrace her a few times and not worry about their eventual parting. Awake and able to feel her fully pressed against him was even better than his hazy memory of that morning. His traitorous cock hardened: he prayed to the Maiden that Arya slept.   
  
"Gendry," her hushed voice crushed his hopes: cruelly making him even harder. "Should I let go?" Arya's hands tightened on his shoulders in contrast with her words. Gendry supposed, especially with her awake, it might be better to let her go. His own disloyal arms pulled her closer, sliding her body up to bury his face in her neck. If she tilted her face just a bit, they would be kissing: that could never happen.   
  
"Do you want me to let you go?" Gendry knew that no matter what she answered, he still should release her. He had no right to hold her, certainly no right to kiss her or do anything else to her.   
  
"No," she shook her head and moved her hands to circle his shoulders. They were both trembling but the chill in the night air was completely forgotten: between their bodies was hotter than a furnace.   
  
"I don't want to let you go yet," his voice was tight because he couldn't say what he really meant: he wanted to hug her like this until forever. Just for a little while longer, he told himself. Gendry kept his arms locked around her waist so that his hands would not wander over her body. He was always careful to give Arya plenty of space whenever she needed privacy: now he was sorry he never took one peek.   
  
She grew stronger and more beautiful each day, though still young and innocent at times. Soon she'd be a lady grown and he wished he could stay with her long enough to see for himself. He didn't want her to be a highborn lady in a castle, sent somewhere faraway to marry some fancy lord. It would be too painful to stand by and care for her more each day: knowing that he could never be more than a man who serves her house.   
  
"Then don't let go." Arya's own voice was thick: Gendry never heard it sound like that before. Could she understand his meaning? Does she know that he wants to do more than just hold her for one night? She was so young and all alone in the world, he felt like a true bastard for taking advantage of her. Doing anything beyond hugging her would make him just like his own selfish 'father'. "Stay with me," she whispered.   
  
"I won't leave you, unless I have to." Gendry knew it was only a matter of time before she left but until then he would stay by her side. Though it felt like torture, he would protect her even from himself. Just for tonight, they could pretend their time to say goodbye would never come and his embrace was only meant to comfort her. It was a bloody farce but felt better than anything he'd had in his whole miserable life.   
  
"Swear it." Arya almost sounded like she was begging as her fingers dug painfully into his shoulder. "Swear you won't leave me." What she asked of him was absurd: vowing to stay together would only cause more pain in the end. They would be parted one day, that's what he wanted to tell her. It would better for both of them to bid a friendly farewell and move on. But friends don't hold each other in the dark: they don't beg to stay together.   
  
"I swear," he promised, knowing it was the wrong thing to say but wanting to pretend he could keep that promise anyway. At his words, Arya uncurled her fingers and started tracing his bare skin at the collar of his tunic. Her breathing quickened against his ear as her hands trailed slowly over his shoulders and over the muscles of his arms. She gasped as his cock twitched against her thighs, stilling her teasing caress.   
  
"Should I stop?" Arya's lips brushed lightly over his skin, her breath hot against his skin and setting his whole body on fire. Mayhaps a moment longer, this would be the last time after all. His heart squeezed painfully at just the thought of never holding her again.   
  
"You choose, Arry." His voice was harsh and ground through his teeth but she only chuckled at his noticeable strain. Her laugh always relaxed him: every time more charming than the last because it was always honest. "I'm not thinking straight," he confessed, or more like he warned. Gendry wondered if she knew that most men would've had her by now. The thought of any man touching Arya filled him with sudden jealous hatred.   
  
"Me too," her voice was breathy as she gave another small laugh that became a moan when his hardness twitched under her again. "I can't think." Arya's hips trembled slightly as she adjusted her position, sending blinding pleasure through his body.  
  
"Bloody hells," he groaned. The urge to flip her on her back and grind against her was almost overwhelming. Whatever part of his brain wasn't being controlled by his cock screamed to throw her off and jump into the freezing Blackwater Rush. "This is a bad idea, milady."  
  
"You're right," she gasped in his ear. She grabbed onto his arm and whimpered in frustration, he felt it as well. "We won't get any sleep like this," she panted, slipping one leg down to his side. Gendry reluctantly released her, knowing whatever game they were playing was too risky. Arya did not take away her hands from his tunic: instead tugging him onto his side as she slid off his body.   
  
He settled into her embrace, closer to how he held her that rainy night when things between them suddenly changed. Curling her knees above his, she clutched him tightly around his waist and tucked herself into his side. Gendry was grateful his head rested on top of hers so she could not see the fat tears rolling from his eyes. A single thought squeezed his chest painfully: this has the be the last time.  
  
In Kings Landing, standing over a forge all day, Gendry dreamt of snow and wondered about far-off places, but now he hated the cold. Not because he was uncomfortable or missed 'home', he didn't have a home to miss: now whenever he shivered in the cold he'd miss her. Never has he let himself name his feelings for Arya but knew well enough it was something he never felt before. Likely, he'd never feel this again.  
  
Mayhaps he really was stupid, to not admit he treasured this wild girl until he had to let her go. It was stupid to let himself care about her: watching her, longing for her smile, teasing her just to see the fire in her eyes. All of it only would make losing Arya that much more bloody painful because she was the closest thing he had to family. Gendry thought his heart had hardened long ago but one highborn maiden broke through easily.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/sing/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176254705)

# Sandor

The little bird forgot her song today - not that fucking shocking, seeing as how the king was pointing his new crossbow at her. Sandor tried not to look at her trembling on her knees - just as he tried to ignore the fact, cowering wouldn't save her. Joff was in a right pissy mood, ever since he heard Robb Stark had gone and declared himself a king - who wasn't these days? Mayhaps he should just slit the little shit's throat and call himself The Hound King.  
  
"You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons." Joff stood before the throne but Sandor stayed careful to guard his expression. None of the proper lords or ladies spoke up for the little bird but a quiet murmur of displeasure tittered through the crowd. A few appeared entertained by the king's behavior - the hound memorized the faces that had smirks on them.  
  
"Your Grace," the girl's voice hitched as her eyes, red from crying, widened with panic. "Whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part." No, little bird, those half-hearted chirps won't work. Sing, girl! With Joff in this state, might be no tune could calm him. "You know that! I beg you-"  
  
"Ser Lancel," Joff interrupted the lady's pointless begging, "tell her of this outrage." Lancel Lannister - aside from having a bloody stupid name - was skinny as a twig and a liar to boot. Watch and learn little bird, learn how honest and noble handsome knights are.  
  
"Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves." The pretty knight's declaration set the hypocrites in the court gossiping in hushed whispers. The nobles were always bloodthirsty, never willing to get their hands dirty. "Thousands of good men were butchered. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain." Gasps from the crowd made Sandor's impassive mask twitch slightly.  
  
"Killing you would send your brother a message," Joff raised his crossbow. Killing her father started a war, you foolish boy. "But my mother insists on keeping you alive - stand." Sandor clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead, knowing what was coming. "So we'll have to send your brother a message some other way." The king set his crossbow down and sat on his throne. "Meryn." Nothing to be done - he knew it was always going to come to this.  
  
"Leave her face, I like her pretty." Joff and his dog had that one thing in common, but the boy's balls hadn't dropped yet. Sure, the little bird's face was appealing but the pale skin and lithe body under her dresses were downright mouthwatering - at least in his dreams. Now would Sandor get to see her beauty, only marred by bruises? Trant punched his gauntlet into her small body and she gasped and moaned pitifully. Would those cries haunt his sleep?  
  
"Meryn, My Lady is overdressed." Joff stood and moved towards the girl for a better look. "Unburden her." There was nothing Sandor could do beside avert his eyes. Trant walked up behind the girl, seizing the back of her dress with two hands and ripped it down the laces. Enough! He couldn't stand and watch this anymore! The hound could not hold himself back any longer!  
  
"If you want Robb Stark to hear us-" Joff's words abruptly cut off and Sandor looked up to witness Lady Sansa Stark suddenly stand and whirl around. Clutching the front of her torn dress, she confronted the pretty knight who vilified her brother.  
  
"You are a coward, ser!" She berated Lancel like a Septa scolding a lusty maiden. "My beloved, Joffrey Baratheon, is the one and only true king, ordained by the Seven! You should have brought back my traitor brother's head to your king... instead you bring excuses!"  
  
"Now, wait just a moment-" The knight tried to speak but the little bird spun around to face her king, ignoring the skinny blond twit completely.  
  
"Your Grace," she was perfect - a picture of submissive innocence. "My brother is a pretender and takes after my traitorous father! Robb has forsaken the Seven for the heathen gods of the north. I know that I share his traitor's blood, and for that, I must be punished. You are just and wise, My King." Finished, the little bird gracefully bowed her head, clasping her hands to her chest like a statue of the Maiden.  
  
"Ser Lancel." Joff stood behind him so Sandor could not tell the king's intention. "Come, stand before the throne." The Lannister boy strutted in front of the throne, taking an eyeful of the little bird's exposed flesh as he passed. "Do you think my lady is pretty, ser?" The king noticed the twit's appraisal as well, appearing equally 'pleased' by the shit's attention as Sandor.  
  
"Yes-" the idiot was startled by the question and nearly misspoke. "Your Grace, Lady Sansa is very beautiful."  
  
"And you, my lady, do you find Ser Lancel handsome?" What game was Joff playing? The little bird didn't seem to know either, her eyes widened in a moment of panic. The conflict inside her head played on her face, likely fighting the urge to fall to her knees and beg.  
  
"Your Grace," she spoke carefully, lowering her eyes demurely - as if she weren't just stripped half-naked and beaten. "A knight can never be as handsome as a king."  
  
"Well said, my lady." The king walked back to his throne but did not sit, instead picking up his crossbow and pointed it at the knight. "Ser Lancel, who do you think should be punished for the pretender's victory?" Joff aimed his weapon at the little bird first. "My Lady Sansa," and then turned it to his cousin, "or you?"  
  
"You-your Grace," the scrawny boy was nearly shitting himself with fright, stuttering his words worse than the little bird had. "The northmen... I was not in charge of the battle plans-"  
  
"Or else they would have succeeded?" Joffrey's mocking tone had a deadly edge to it and the Lannister twit seemed to notice as well. "I have to sit on this throne and rule all seven kingdoms. Must I lead my own armies to victory as well? My lady called you a coward. Will you not defend yourself against her accusation?"  
  
"Forgive me, Your Grace." The knight fell to his knee and bowed his head. "I have failed you."  
  
"Yes, you have." Joff let the crossbow hang by his hip before turning to the lady standing so still Sandor might swear she was not even breathing. "Lady Sansa, you called Ser Lancel a coward, I agree with your accusation. Tell me, what punishment does he deserve for his cravenness?"  
  
"I think..." Her words were barely more than a whisper. Sing girl - sing for your life! Lady Sansa's shoulders fell back and she gracefully tilted her chin up to stare down the king. "I think he should have to prove his bravery in order to keep his knighthood. He should face fear itself and defeat it to prove himself worthy of serving you, Your Grace."  
  
"Fear itself?" Joff appeared amused by the girl's poetry. "And what are you most afraid of, my lady?" Sandor wished he was still looking away - the girl glanced at him when asked what she feared most. The king noticed too, cackling gleefully when he saw the little bird's answer. "You might not be so stupid after all. What do you think of my lady's choice, dog?"  
  
"I'll scare the little shit," Sandor told him, "if that's what you want." Honestly, it would feel good to get some Lannister blood on his sword. "Your Grace," he added after too long a moment but Joff never minded his dog's bad manners. The king laughed as he sat back in his throne to watch - the boy wanted blood and the hound intended to deliver.  
  
"Go on then." Joff gave permission - why argue? Sandor strode towards the little bird, drawing his sword and her eyes widened with panic as he approached. The hound didn't know how to be gentle so when the lady was within arm's reach he just shoved her out of the way - she stumbled but didn't fall. The moment she was moved, he kicked skinny Lancel Lannister in the gut, sending the boy stumbling back.  
  
"Draw, you blonde cunt!" Sandor roared at the boy - already smelling his terror. This - fighting, drawing blood, killing - this was why he was made. Nothing else mattered - his eyes betrayed him to glance at the little bird. The people gathered in the court were moving back from the fight but few actually left. Lady Sansa was a safe enough distance away and shaking with panic. The fool finally drew his sword - the hound had been patient long enough.  
  
He struck - first to the left to deflect the lad's weak attack - then to the right to crush the side of his broadsword into the knight's ribs. Lancel doubled over in pain, almost dropping his sword. The boy probably would have worn armor if he'd known he would have to fight for his life. No, Sandor would not kill him. The hound wanted to end him - but the king had not ordered it.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?!" The crowd parted for Tyrion Lannister approaching the throne. The knight scuttled backwards, holding his injured side and staring at the hound in wide-eyed horror. "Someone get the girl something to cover herself with!" The imp didn't give him orders - he wasn't doing it for him. Sandor strode over to where the little bird stood, ripped the white cloak from his back, and clumsily covered her bare shoulders with it.  
  
Her rapt attention was fully on Joff, probably terrified that the beating would continue. It was best since he didn't want her chirping her thanks and drawing attention anyway - the hound had a reputation to keep. Then the little bird cast her bewitching eyes up at him and - for once - he could see no trace of fear. Sandor forced himself to turn and walk away from the lady.  
  
"Ser Lancel Lannister is a knight loyal to you and your own cousin!" The lord's words were hushed, trying to reason with his nephew - fat chance of that happening. "Lady Sansa is to be your queen, have you no regard for her honor?" Of course he didn't! Was the dwarf blind or just too short to notice the madness in the boy's eyes? The brat slumped down in his throne with a huff, pouting and glaring.  
  
"You can't talk to me like that." The fucking king sounded like a spoiled child, being admonished for stealing a treat. Joff was fuming, no one ever stood up to him before the imp arrived. "The king can do as he likes!" How many times had he heard those words slurred from King Robert's mouth? He'd certainly taught the boy well how to be a king.  
  
"The Mad King did as he liked," the imp was playing a dangerous game - his clever mouth was going to get him killed. "Has your Uncle Jaime ever told you what happened to him?" Sandor knew the boy would not hear the truth in the imp's words through his mocking tone.  
  
"No one threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard!" Fuck Meryn Trant! The bloody toad was going to lose his sword hand if he raised it against the little bird again. Sandor nearly snorted at Trant's arrogant pride - there were no noble knights, just killers. The imp hadn't said anything that wasn't true - the brat would do well to listen to his uncle. Unfortunately for the little Lord Lannister, the king never did anything well.  
  
"I'm not threatening the king, ser." The lord did not bother to hold back his contempt for the girl-beating Kingsguard. "I am educating my nephew." Tyrion turned to his sellsword. "Bronn, the next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him." Get in line, sellsword. "That was a threat, see the difference?" More titters rose from the crowd, they would not forget the half-man's behavior either. The dwarf turned away, apparently giving up on convincing his nephew to be less of a complete shit.  
  
The little bird was still standing, clutching his cape around her body - head held high like a proper queen. When the imp approached her and held out a hand she stared at it, as if nervous he was trying to trick her. Good girl, never trust your enemies even when they show you kindness. Sandor forgot to hide his emotion, grinning as the little bird turned her nose up at the lord and strode to stand in front of the throne again.  
  
"Your Grace," the little bird's voice was soft and demure. "I beg your permission to go change my dress so that my appearance will not offend you." Joffrey seemed bored with the girl, nodding and dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "Thank you, Your Grace." Sandor let himself watch her as she walked out of the court - she wasn't looking at him anyway. For one bloody foolish moment, Sandor wished he'd offered his hand to escort her.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/cape/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176315414)

# Sansa

Her heart raced as she forced herself to walk slowly back to her chambers, surrounded by handmaidens cooing their sympathies. Sansa was fuming... let them keep their false pity! She coolly ordered a bath brought up and to have Shae sent to her. The foreign woman proved every bit the challenge she appeared to be on the night she came into Sansa's service. Shae often demonstrated blunt honesty and would not pretend empathy.  
  
"You asked for me, my lady?" Shae interrupted her thoughts, standing uselessly in her customary way.  
  
"You should knock," she scolded her handmaiden, a task Sansa was always doing lately. The attractive woman only rolled her dark eyes and crossed her arms.  
  
"I did knock, you did not answer." Shae's lack of pity was exactly what she needed. Sansa just shook her head in resignation and waved a hand at her dress. The handmaiden was strangely compliant when she nodded and set to work pulling the dress down over her lady's bruised shoulders. "Should we send it to be mended, my lady?"  
  
"No," she responded quickly. "I will fix it myself, place it on my chest." Sansa pointed at the box in the corner of the room. She spotted the white fabric puddled on the floor in front of her bed. "And this," she handed the cloak to her handmaiden. Even though her shoulders were bare, Sansa could still feel the warmth from the hound's white cloak. He had rushed across the room, cape flowing behind him...  
  
'Enough', she thought she heard him muttering, was it him or someone else? Or her own wishful thinking? She truly was a fool, Sansa thought bitterly, having convinced herself that she was stronger than she used to be. Standing up to Joffrey once didn't make her clever! Likely, the hound's lie was the only reason she escaped punishment at the nameday tourney. Did giving her his cloak today mean he... cares for her?  
  
The hound treated her like a fool and a child! Why would he care for her? He called her pretty often enough, but that reason seemed somewhat disappointing. Moving to sit at her vanity, Sansa studied her reflection, wondering if she was really so attractive that a man would help her despite the risk. That thought made her blush until she remembered her father was dead and the time for childishness was over.  
  
"Your face was not marked at least," the handmaiden was almost forgotten. "Let me help you undress, I am sure you are uncomfortable." Sansa could only nod, worried that she would cry if she answered. Her fear and anger distracted her earlier but it was becoming hard to breathe when constricted by her corset. Shae quickly unlaced the garment and gently pulled it over her head, Sansa could not hold back her gasp of pain.  
  
"I just want to sleep." Sansa managed to speak through gritted teeth. Shae already had her sleeping shift ready, bunched in her hands. Her handmaiden carefully placed her lady's hands through the armholes before slowly drawing the garment down over her head. "You can go," she dismissed the maid, who curtsied terribly and left her alone. She was always alone...  
  
Sansa found her own gaze in the mirror again, surprised to see a hardened look in her eyes, it made her look more a woman than a girl. 'You're almost a woman', she heard the hound's voice so clearly that she looked behind her. No one was there of course... his voice was inside her own head and not for the first time. After losing her father she understood what it meant to be truly alone and it was worse than being beaten.  
  
The hound's voice began filling the silence around her whenever she would wonder what he would say, which was often. 'Give him what he wants', his advice failed her this day. Sansa thought Joffrey wanted her to show deference, she thought it worked when she saw the king's eyes roaming her body. He looked pleased by her meekness, but it spurred his actions further, as if seeing her misery made him... lustful.  
  
Pure madness made Sansa turn on Ser Lancel in court and only by the grace of the gods did she manage to avoid making things worse. How could she withstand pretending to love Joffrey when the mere thought of his evil smile made her stomach turn? How exactly should she 'give him what he wants'?! The hound thought Sansa was a little bird who could just chirp some songs to avoid Joffrey's wrath. She is only just a girl! 'You're almost a woman', the hound disagreed.  
  
Sansa rested an elbow on the vanity and held her forehead in her hand. She knew it was ungrateful and selfish to expect more from the hound, he already helped her several times. A sad smile came to her lips when she remembered their first encounter, he helped her even then. He saw that she was frightened of Ser Ilyn Payne, the hound japed that the man scared him as well. Suddenly restless, she rose to pace the room.  
  
Pain ripped through Sansa's stomach and ribs and she doubled over, nearly losing her stomach. 'Mother, help me', she prayed. She was going to be in pain no matter what she did, so she might as well do something about it! Steeling herself for the discomfort, Sansa stood up straight, aligning her spine like a proper lady should. Today she learned, or rather confirmed, that if she did not want to be a victim, she needed to be a wolf.  
  
An evil thought flitted through her mind... Ser Lancel is suffering at least as much as she. Sansa could bite her tongue for days, if it meant pleasing Joffrey and staying alive. For the king, she would smile and sing him a pretty tune to survive this nightmare. Sansa locked everything of her true self away just to resist attacking that bastard whenever she saw him. However, she could not tolerate Lancel Lannister calling her brother a cannibal!  
  
She needed to think, so that meant only one thing. Stitching! She walked over to her sewing chest to see her torn dress and the white fabric neatly folded on top. Sansa swallowed the tightness that rose in her throat and picked up the hound's cape to pull it around her shoulders. It seemed to give her strength and she allowed herself to stand for a moment and soak it in. Gingerly, she unwound the cloak from her body and folded it neatly.  
  
Sansa hid the cape on the bottom of the chest and then hurried to gather the supplies she would need. Pale yellow trim, black velvet fabric, and frost blue thread. She would make an embroidered sash to complement her grey dress. The design would be a single blue winter rose... innocent but still represented Winterfell, a small defiance. Stitch by stitch, the embroidery began to take shape as she unraveled her feelings about the hound.  
  
Lord Baelish told Sansa and Arya the horrifying tale of the hound's burns, though it was not his story to tell. At the tournament, she cheered when the hound bravely saved Ser Loras from Ser Gregor. Afterward, he came to escort her to queen, intimidating her with a cruel grin. Sansa had been worried he would be able to tell that she knew the truth and frightened of what Lord Baelish told her. How very silly she had been then, not really so long ago.  
  
When Joffrey showed her... That awful day he meant to take the memory of her father, smiling and alive, from her. Father lived in her heart always and she only hoped they would meet in some afterlife so she could plead for his forgiveness. She wished more than anything to be held in father's arms even once more, safe and warm. The hound was gentle that day when he stopped her from pushing Joffrey, most days she was thankful.  
  
Whatever the reason, she was sure the hound felt something for her and that meant she was not alone, there was at least one person who cared if she lived or died. If his interest was due to her pretty face, who was she to complain? She ignored her building shame, reasoning that the gods had blessed her with beauty so it would be a waste not to have some advantage come from it. What benefit could be gained from the hound's affection?  
  
He was the fiercest warrior Sansa had ever known, though he was not ambitious nor knighted, the hound was granted a position in the Kingsguard. The man sneered at the very notion of a 'noble night', yet he seemed the most honorable man in Kings Landing. The hound was cruel at times, yet his blunt honesty was undoubtedly preferable to the honeyed lies of the Lannisters. Her father taught her she should judge men by their actions.  
  
The hound was a Lannister man, a Kingsguard, and known for his loyalty. Would he forsake his masters to help a silly little bird that he finds pretty? What sort of help did she want from him... escape? What payment would he demand for his help? Sansa felt a heated blush spread over her cheeks as she wondered if she could actually give herself to the hound to be free. A rush of doubt and unanswerable questions flooded her mind.  
  
Sansa immediately discounted the childish dream of escape, which was treason if spoken aloud. It was too dangerous, she had no idea where to go, nor did she have the means to get anywhere. Slumping down into her chair, she laid the velvet sash aside and swiped away the tears welling in her eyes. Already resigned to the idea that she would likely never meet her family again, it still hurt like a fresh cut to her heart to admit it.  
  
Blinking her wet lashes and rising to her feet, she approached the window and looked towards the North. Robb was brave and strong, he would be a much better king than Joffrey or even King Robert. Her brother was coming for her, she had to be strong to survive until he and mother saved her. If Sansa was to survive, she needed someone strong to protect her. The question was... could she afford the price of protection?

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/goodbye/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176231439)

# Merry

She woke to the rattling sound of Robb donning his armor, though the hour was still too early for him to leave. Merry pretended to be asleep, watching his outline move about the blackened tent. His tendency as of late to rise early might not bother her if he came in at a decent hour. How could he wage a war on so little sleep? Where did he spend his late hours night after night?  
  
The Battle of Oxcross was a great triumph, though she was not meant to know the specifics. Oly needed some persuasion to be convinced he should start listening in on meetings in the command tent. His reports to her improved greatly with that enhancement. That day, she wanted to tell Robb that she would be praying for his victory but it would rouse his suspicions. No matter... he would continue to be victorious and she would be patient.  
  
Merry watched him pulling on the various pieces of leather and metal, listening to soft curses when he poked his fingers. This was about as much time she would spend with her husband today. They shared a bed, but only to sleep in. Otherwise, they were perfect strangers who happen to be married. Soon enough, the child she most certainly carried would make them parents together.   
  
Impending motherhood felt differently than she thought it would. Some things she expected, like the sense of accomplishment for her House and herself personally. This child would reinforce her position as a Stark and, if born a male, an heir would strengthen Robb's kingship. Inevitably, fear and doubt crept in around the edges of her triumph. What if this baby is a girl? What if something goes wrong?  
  
Even stranger, this tiny life in her belly seemed to have a... temperament. It made her recall long-forgotten memories and craved foods she personally never desired before. Sometimes, only once or perhaps twice, Merry found herself talking to the unborn child as though it could hear and understand her. Robb might be better off ignorant until he had to know. She waited for him to finish dressing before distracting him.  
  
"You should have woke me," she spoke quietly but he seemed startled anyway, Robb was a thousand miles away in his mind. What was he thinking? If her husband seemed distant before, now he acted almost cold towards her.  
  
"I, uh," he cleared his throat and continued adjusting his armor. "I came in late last night and you were sound asleep." The baby made her tired all the time, day and night. Robb looked in her general direction, likely unable to see her clearly in the shadows. "I was tired."  
  
"Oh," she tried to fight back all of the creeping doubts crawling through her mind. Something about the way he spoke sounded so strange, as if he was hiding something. How could he lie to her when they never spoke? "Are we moving out soon?"  
  
"With this rain," he sighed wearily. "Some of our food is spoiled and the horses tire quickly in the mud."   
  
"Improvements to the storage containers could be made." Merry pondered on the availability of clay or some other material. Robb nodded yet did not seem to be listening or willing to discuss the problem with her. Perhaps this was as good a time as any to confess what she was obligated to tell him. Who knows when they might have the chance to speak again? "Robb, I need to tell you-"  
  
"I have to go," he interrupted briskly. "I'll see you later on tonight." Robb did not even spare a glance backwards as he opened the tent flap. Merry started to tell him to have a good day but that was a stupid thing to say to a man waging a war.   
  
"All right... see you later on," she called dejectedly after his retreating form before flopping back on the bed. So much for a goodbye kiss, not that she expected it. Dread tightened her throat, as she feared the passion between them had already faded. Sudden panic gripped her heart as one explanation for his stony behavior occurred to her. He knows about her condition!   
  
Merry pushed the needless distress aside, convinced there was no way he could possibly know she was with child because he would have sent her away already. Though her fear might be nonsense, Robb would be greatly displeased if she kept it from him any longer. She tried to tell him many times since her moonblood stopped coming but they were previously distracted by marital bliss.   
  
More recently, either one or both of them were too weary by the day's end. For her part, it was the child making her tired so she wondered what could be exhausting her husband. Was the war taking its toll on him? Merry read that men who saw the tragedies of war were changed by it. Her heart constricted for her husband... He was so kind, and good, she knew he did not want this bloodshed.  
  
Resolved to be a better wife to him, she rolled onto her side, tucked herself back into bed, and planned to stay there as long as she could. If she rested all day, then she could wait awake for him tonight and provide what comfort she could. Merry tossed away her earlier worries and sank down under the warm covers with a smile on her face. Tonight she would make Robb forget all about the war, even if just for a short time.  
  
Despite her best efforts, sleep would not take her again... the noise of the camp kept distracting her mind. Boots stomped around on muddy ground as men shouted various orders at their soldiers. Horses nickered and dogs barked in the distance. Soon, light peeked through the tent flap and Merry sat up with an exasperated sigh. She leaned back against the pillows and pulled the furs up to her chin.  
  
"I should have gone to Riverrun," she told her child. "Your father has grown tired of me it seems." Merry slid her palm over her lower stomach, wondering what her son would look like. It must be a boy, for the gods are not so cruel to send her a girl child in these trying times. 'Crone, in your vast wisdom, grant my husband the heir he needs. Even if I bear only daughters afterwards'.  
  
Her son should look like a Stark... like Robb, with dark hair and serious eyes. He should also learn his father's honorable ways and devotion to his family. Moreover, she would raise her child to be cunning like a Frey so that he can survive the treachery that lurks in every shadow and smile. Finally, she would teach him a crucial lesson that escapes most boys, that women can also be valuable assets and dangerous enemies.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/grieving/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176326032)

# Brienne

They rode hard for three nights and two days, to escape the Tyrell men in pursuit, until their horses could take no more. Lady Catelyn gave no complaints: the lady said nothing at all. Neither of them could forget that awfulness which transpired inside King Renly's tent. When they finally stopped to rest the horses, Brienne needed a moment to herself to think.  
  
"My Lady," she struggled to keep her voice even, "I will not go far: I only need a moment." Lady Catelyn nodded without looking up, her expression still haunted by the horror they witnessed. Breanne tied her horse off on a low-hanging branch and walked into the woods, only far enough to truly be alone. Tears did not come as easily as she thought they would.  
  
Her eyes focused on the orange sun glowing behind the early evening woods as she realized that she knew absolutely nothing, nothing at all. The breeze blew cold against her cheek but she could not feel it, her stomach was empty yet she knew no hunger, her heart beat even while broken. He was gone: Renly would never smile at her again, or scold her lightly for being too 'serious'. The only man in her lifetime who showed her any true respect and he died in her arms!   
  
The worst part was that she could do nothing to save him, all of her strength and devotion meant nothing in the wake of that spectral ghost! Her life was spent wielding a sword and trying to find a place in this world for a woman like her. That place where she belonged was at King Renly's side, loving him silently and protecting him with her life. That dark apparition murdered her king and did not even have the honor to stripe down his most devoted subject.   
  
Then the tears came and Brienne wished them away because weeping did nothing to soothe her shattered spirit. Even though she knew Lady Catelyn depended on her to get home, she wanted to lay down forever on this forest floor. Her body would be buried in leaves and someday all that would remain is the steel cladding her body. Even then, if someone found her remains, they would never think of a fierce warrior woman who loved her king.   
  
Anger: it's scraped across her heart like the tip of a dull blade. The very thought that some passerby would discover her armor and assume she had been a man lit a fire in her gut. She never dreamed of fame and glory or being remembered in some song or story. Yet, she still has many great deeds to do for the good of this kingdom and its people. First, she would see Lady Catelyn safely home and then she would gather the strength she needed to find justice for her slain king.   
  
Stannis was responsible, that spectral demon looked like the tall dour man she saw in passing a few times. Perhaps that man was the true heir to the Iron Throne, but Renly was beloved by the people! For that, Stannis Baratheon killed his own flesh and blood! That kinslayer would meet his end by her blade, she vowed. Somehow, Brienne found the strength to turn around and walk back to the lady depending on her.  
  
"We best keep moving My Lady," she spoke softly but the other woman still jumped as if startled. "Those men are likely still after us."  
  
"I think…" The lady spoke her first words since the ghastly incident. "You've acted very bravely, more bravely than any woman and most men I have ever known."  
  
"It's strange," she held out her hand to help the lady rise to her feet. "How closely entangled bravery and fear are." Brienne assisted Lady Catelyn to mount up before climbing up onto her own horse and she rode away from her grief. She would never forget Renly, someday she would see justice done for his despicable murder, but she would not lay down and die from sadness. Other women can pine away for their lost love, but not her: a Kingsguard has a duty, even after her king's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'Garden of Bones' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> Whew! Last week was a helluva doozy for me! For some reason I've had vivid dreams *every night* this week and it always makes me so freaking tired. My laptop starting overheating and it's damaging the power capacity of my batter so I figured the fan needed a cleaning... Out of the *dozen* teeny-tiny screws: two got stripped when I tried to unscrew them. Who the frack was on that assembly line - Hercules?! So, the overheating is still a problem and I have to buy a new battery I guess.


	7. Necessary Discourse

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/ironborn/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176837186)

# Theon

He was fucking miserable because Ser Cassel had been ignoring him for almost two days and the quiet was driving him mad! The man barely strings together two words without sighing and rolling his eyes like Theon was some lost cause. The journey to Kings Landing had been an eighth hell so far and was taking twice as long as it normally should. The argued the whole way but at least that was better than being ignored!

"At this rate we won't reach King's Landing until after Robb does," he grumbled for the hundredth time. Finally, he lost it: turning towards the man and screaming in his fat ugly face. "I don't understand why we can't get some horses! We have the stags for it!" Ser Cassel's eyes grew wide and swiveled around before turning back to glare at him.

"Keep your bloody voice down, boy!" The man was roaring himself so Theon didn't think there was much danger from his own yelling. 

"But-!"

"For the love of the old and new gods," the old red-faced man hissed, "will you shut up?"

"But," Theon lowered his voice, trying to appease the crotchety knight. "I'm filthy, dressed in rags, and we're riding in a bloody fucking turnip cart!" Even to his own ears it sounded like he was whining but they had been in this cart for weeks: smelling these godsdamned rotting turnips.

"And what's wrong with turnips?" Ser Cassel seemed to be amused by Theon's discomfort. "What'd an innocent vegetable ever do to you?" Now the old man was mocking him: his silence had been better!

"I just don't like them," he spat over the side. "Or their carts." Theon sneered and shook his head: wondering how he ever came to this. Why had Robb sent him on this ridiculous mission? What could two men do against an army of Goldcloaks and Kingsguards? 

"I'd have an easier time with Lady Sansa in your place than you," the old man japed with a snort. "I doubt she'd complain this much."

"What are you saying," he felt his ire rising even higher, "that I'm a girl?" Theon clenched his fists, wondering just how much trouble he would have with Robb if he hit Ser Cassel just once in his stupid bearded jaw.

"I'm saying you complain more than a highborn maiden." The old chuckled and lifted on the mule's reigns to slow their pace even more. "I thought you Ironborn were all born tougher and meaner than the rest. I guess it's trained into you when you become a man and you left before you could be made into a man."

"Watch it, old man." Theon meant his warning seriously, Ser Cassel had no idea how close he was to being knocked right out of this bloody turnip cart! "Say I'm not a man once more and I'll whip out my cock and show you."

"Easy now," the old man grinned at him, "it was a compliment. You haven't seen any Ironborn in years so you don't know, but their all a bunch of rapers and arrogant arseholes."

"Wait just a minute," Theon started to argue, "you don't-"

"You take offense," Ser Cassel cut him off angrily, "to me saying that you're not a rapist or an arsehole?!" His question stunned Theon into silence: not something that often happened to him. "Well you're arrogant enough but nowhere near as bad as any other Ironborn I've met." The old man sighed and gave him a serious look. "You're a good lad, be grateful that Lord Stark took you in and raised you under his roof."

"Grateful?" Theon scoffed a laugh but then he got truly pissed. "Grateful?! I should be grateful that I was stolen as a little boy from my family and taken from everything I knew and loved?"

"You ever slit a little boy's throat so you could rape his mother and then kill her to steal a few coins for the trouble?" Ser Cassel pulled hard on the reins to bring the cart to a full stop and turned towards Theon. "You ever do that, Theon Greyjoy? Because if you have, admit it now, and I'll see justice done for that family. Got nothing to say?" What could he say? What the old man said about the Ironborn wasn't wrong.

"I've never raped nor murdered anyone," he grumbled, crossing his arms and turning as far away from the old man as he could. Seemingly satisfied with Theon's answer, Ser Cassel restarted the mule's torturously slow pace. The shifting wheels of the wagon filled the silence before the knight spoke again.

"You would have by now if you were raised Ironborn." Ser Cassel spoke low and serious. "You would have chased down screaming women and crying children. Simple peasants who never done any wrong besides maybe told a falsehood or two. You would have held them down - and raped them - and then you would have killed them. Without reason and without honor. For the love of pain and blood."

"Those are my people," he managed to choke out, driving away images of himself hurting innocent villagers. Theon could never do that! But he was Ironborn: the only remaining heir to the isles.

"No, you were raised to be a good man." Ser Cassel spoke with such conviction, as if he really knew Theon. "You're like a brother to the King in the North and his people are your people. Someday you will be the lord of Pyke and a valuable asset to King Robb's northern realm. Your ships will sail to protect the kingdom, instead of ravaging its coastal villages and unsettling trade."

"How do you know that?" Theon demanded, turning to face the arrogant old man again. "I could return home and raise a fleet against Robb: you have no idea what I would do."

"I know you lad," the old man softened his tone, "else I would've never put a sword in your hand." Ser Cassel glanced over Theon, appraising him in from head to toe but without the usual scoff of disappointment. "I've watched you grow into a man that Lord Stark was proud of."

"Lord Stark said that?" It stunned him to hear that anyone was actually proud of him, especially the hard-to-please Lord Eddard Stark.

"He spoke to me about you often," the old man continued, "telling me he wanted to see the lord you would become." Ser Cassel sighed and shook his head sadly, "Ned was an honorable man, as good as they come, and he still made his mistakes." Theon was riveted by the hard look the old knight gave him. "You will have the power to change the course of your people's history. Will you be a leader of pirates or protectors?"

Theon didn't feel like talking anymore so he turned away to rest his head on the back of the driver's bench, using his arm as a cushion. He didn't sleep: the old man had given him too much to think about.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/swords/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176838883)

# Arya

Traveling along the Blackwater Rush was much easier than wandering through the dense woodlands, except for Gendry's silence. Arya woke up alone the first morning they slept beside the massive river, and when she tried to start a conversation - nothing. He mumbled a few syllables if she were lucky and otherwise he pretended as if she didn't exist. Admittedly, the journey was difficult so perhaps he merely hadn't been sleeping well.

The first few days, Arya tried to be understanding, assuming his pissy mood would pass once they got on their way. Eventually, her self-control faded as irritation - rising from the sting of rejection - took over. She couldn't take his silence! Consequences be damned, she began antagonizing the bull, just to get a rise out of him. Nothing - he never responded. His indifference actually hurt, her chest ached with every breath.

In desperation, she began making up tasks to order him around just so she could get his attention. The bull figured out what she was doing and ignored her entirely after that, directing all comments somewhere over her head. Gendry hardly acknowledged Arya at all, except when it directly related to their journey. Nothing she did broke through his stony exterior even a tiny bit - she might as well not even exist to him.

Why? That question burned in her mind as the distance between them grew into a crevasse more uncrossable than the Blackwater Rush. The river widened as they arrived to the edge of the bank, at that point the land plunged down sharply. The forest grew dense ahead - cutting off their path, the only way was to go straight through. Arya was hesitant to begin trudging through the woods again.

So was Gendry apparently, he seemed to be slowing his pace as they approached the wall of trees. The chilling air had begun to strip the trees and bushes of their leaves, their bare branches somehow made the shadowy wooded area appear ominous. The bull released their larger satchel and began to set out everything needed to boil water. Arya let go of her own sack next to him - which carried mostly foraged food. 

"I'll go find some wood," she announced, trying to catch his gaze. He only shrugged and snorted like a bull. Fine - stupid man - Arya stormed off into the dense woods and set about finding some firewood right away. The dry icy air had made the brushwood perfect for building a fire and soon she had as much as she could carry. She returned to Gendry's side and dropped the branches into a pile beside him.

She did it too close - knowing it could have injured him - but wanting to get some kind of reaction. Still nothing, it was as if he did not see her at all and the wood simply fell out of the sky. Arya huffed in exasperation, picked up one of the straighter sticks, and began to practice her water dancing. There had been no time to train since she left Kings Landing and it was more important than ever. 

"I think we should collect water quickly and move on." Gendry's gruff voice cut through Arya's focus. "Getting' through these woods could take a while." She considered his words and only heard his hurry to get away from her. Why else would he be so eager to go into those dark woods instead of resting on the bank again? Suddenly, an idea struck her. 

"We aren't going anywhere today," her tone indicated she wouldn't tolerate arguing. He stood and crossed his arms over his chest. Arya was briefly distracted by the memory of being folded between those strong arms. Warmth crawled under her skin - not at all a blush, possibly a very slight rosiness from the air's cold bite. She spun away and slashed at an imaginary foe that looked just a bit like a stupid bull. 

"I'm in no mood, milady." Gendry must not have been paying attention to her tone because he dared so sound annoyed with her. Clearly, he did not fully appreciate their situation - they are a pack of two. Arya is in charge, she is - and always will be - the alpha wolf and he was her beta. She whirled to face him and pointed her stick right at the center of his forehead. 

"Shut up, bull! I'm no lady - I'm a wolf." Arya let her weapon drop to her side and strode forward to grab another straight, long sturdy piece of kindling. She tossed it to him but instead of catching it, he thwarted it with his hands. "Pick up your sword," she said, assuming her water dancing posture. Gendry ignored her and started to walk away so she skipped forwards and firmly rapped her sword alongside his arm. 

"I'm not playing games!" Gendry sneered, rubbing the part of his arm where the stick lashed him as he glowered at her. "You said yourself the river's widened: meaning we're getting close." Arya knows exactly what she said - she also remembered that when she said that he merely grunted like a beast. She glared right back at him and flourished her branch. 

"We cannot go one step further until you are not utterly useless at defending yourself." Arya saw his nostril flare - like a stupid bull - but she smirked victoriously at finally reaching through the wall between them. "We did not have time earlier, now we do." Gendry clenched his fists by his side stubbornly - as if she wasn't the more stubborn of the two. "I won't stop." 

"Alright," he griped with a dramatic sigh as he reached for the branch she threw at him. He lifted it up from the dirt and held it with two hands, facing her with his feet spread apart. Arya shook her head and emphasized her stance with a nimble flourish of her own stick. 

"Hold it with one hand - it's not a greatsword - you must learn to use the weapon you have." Arya lunged headfirst, effortlessly knocking Gendry's weapon out of his hands, and resumed her water dancing stance. "Pick it up," she commanded, tilting her chin up and looking down her nose at her pupil. He frowned at her, muttering angrily as he picked up his stick with to hold it in one hand. 

"Arry," Gendry's voice was constricted with barely controlled annoyance as he planted his feet wide apart and faced her again. "I don't want to hurt you." Arya barked out a laugh at his menacing tone - as if he could even touch her! She raised an arrogant eyebrow and looked up through her lashes with a mocking smile on her lips. 

"Stupid - you might be bigger, but that just makes you a bigger target." Arya twirled towards Gendry - thrashing him on his forearm. He yelped in pain and swung his stick down towards her but she skipped out of the way easily. "I'm skinny and fast, which has its advantages." She struck him again - this time on his leg above his ankle. "Quick as a snake." 

"Ouch!" Gendry hopped on one foot, rubbing his lower limb with his free hand. "That hurt," he growled at her, his blue eyes glittering with restrained wrath. Good - he needed to learn to use that rage - it might make him feel stronger but strength does not determine every battle. "You really are a wolf," he grumbled under his breath. 

"It hurts more to be dead, bull." Arya would not back down under his aggravated stare, she might be irritated with Gendry, but it was still necessary that he learn to defend himself. "Turn your body side-face - so you are harder to hit - and hold out your sword in front of you." He imitated her pose but still held his stick too firmly. "No! You are not holding a forging hammer - you are holding a needle." 

"A needle?" Gendry gave her one of his stupid serious expressions - likely he would be as good at needlework as she was. In other words, no skill whatsoever. Arya nodded in concession - undeniably, it was a bad analogy for a blacksmith to follow. 

"Alright, whatever small tool smiths use for detailed work." Arya swiveled her wrist lightly, swinging the stick with a graceful ease. "Don't try to hammer me - you want to poke me full of holes." She jabbed towards him - stopping only a breath's length from the center of Gendry's broad chest. 

"Ah," he sighed and nodded as understanding dawned in his eyes. Were his eyes always bluer than the sky on a summer day? "Like a puncher: it makes little holes." Arya smirked at her student with pride and gave him one short nod as she settled into a fighting pose. Gendry copied her position - somewhat clumsy but well enough - her smirk grew to a wide grin. 

"Exactly - stick 'em with the pointy end." Arya crooked her forefinger and invited Gendry to attack - he came from the left high, as he obviously would. Her pretend sword blocked his blow easily and poked his wide chest again. "You're dead again." He struck from the right, stupidly clutching the stick with two hands and clumsily striking to the right. She dove right as well, ducking under the arc of his swing and poking him in the ribs. "Very dead - an extremely stupid dead bull."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/sticks/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176833461)

# Gendry

"I'm in no mood for this," he hurled down his twig: Gendry was finished with her outburst. Arry pretended like she was helping him but she clearly enjoyed hurting him. She'd hurt him enough for one lifetime and he's bigger than her so he won't let himself be pushed around anymore. Sure, he'd keep telling himself that. 

"Death doesn't care what mood you're in, bull." Arya's grin left: replaced with a dark and oddly grim look. "The Stranger doesn't care how you feel. Winter has come for us both - we must protect ourselves, look after one another." Gendry groaned: there she went, talking about taking care of each other again. Why did she insist on this farce? Did she enjoy playing with his feelings? 

"Cut it out, Arry!" Gendry felt plenty angry but nothing prepared him for the storm he saw rising in Arya's furious gaze. Gods save him! She flung down her own stick, shattering into three pieces as it crashed to the ground: he forgot how freakishly strong she was. In an instant, she was on him, running and then lunging at him, sending them both hurtling to the ground. The wind knocked out of his lungs painfully as she landed on him. 

"Arya!" She shouted her own name furiously, propping one boney knee up on his chest, pushing him into the cool sandy soil. "You were starting to call me by my name. Why did you stop? Why won't you talk to me anymore?" Arya clutched two fistfuls of his tunic collar and shook him none too gently. "We - I thought," her voice broke and so did his heart. "Why?" It was so simple, of course: their stations. 

"Arya," Gendry was stunned by the misery etched in her expression. The fire in her eyes was smothered by her long denied tears and still, she did not let them fall: blinking them back to hide them in her heart. "I'm makin' it easier for both of us." Couldn't she see he was trying to spare them an even greater suffering later? No bastard blacksmith had the right to love a highborn maiden: ever. 

"That's stupid!" Arya threw her hands up with a huff and crossed them over her chest: her face was red with irritation. "Why do you keep saying you are going away?!" She dug her shin into his ribs until he groaned in pain but Gendry did not have the will to push her off. "You promised not to leave me." Her voice was quiet and tight as she slid off his chest with a sigh, spinning her back to him. 

"We won't be able to stay together forever: you do get that, don't you?" He sat up, pulling his knees up to lean his elbows against them. Lacing his fingers, he studied his open palms linked between his knees because he couldn't look at her. For the first time, Gendry wasn't sure she actually got it. Arya was usually so clever, confident, and brave: made it difficult to remember she was just a girl of ten and three. 

"No," Arya croaked, choked by the tears she would not allow herself. "I don't understand anything you do!" She shoved off the ground and walked away. "Stupid bull!" Bending with surprising grace, she picked up his cast aside practice weapon and tossed it before his feet. 

"Arya!" Gendry didn't want to fight, not with sticks or words. Since that night, when he begged to hold her in a moment of weakness, he knew he'd wronged them both. Earlier they had their companionship, however quarrelsome it could be, but now they could hardly look at each other. Every day since that next morning, he used every ounce of his willpower to avoid begging her to run away with him: just the two of them. 

"Defend yourself!" Arya snatched a new piece of firewood for her own 'sword' and brandished it at him. "You bastard!" From her lips, that word stabbed him as surely as any sword: a needle straight through his heart. "Blackhearted-blacksmith-bastard-bull!" She was spitting with fury but Gendry only shook his head and refused to face the girl he'd already hurt too much. "Pick it up!" 

"You're mad at the wrong person." That wasn't completely true but Gendry could not take any more of her anger, the blame was not only his own. "I was angry too for a while and sometimes I was mad at you." He swiped at his wet eyes before any tears collected. "Being fucking pissed about being born a bastard is a waste of time: same goes for highborn ladies." 

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" Arya's voice always lowered when her anger rose: her response caught him off-guard. "I don't care that you're a bastard - I only called you that to make you hurt as much as I do." He could almost hear the apology hanging on her lips but she could not say it. "You even see that I don't want to be a 'lady' but you constantly remind me that I am-" 

"I'm reminding myself, Arry: you're a lady and you're a girl." Gendry buried his face in his hands as guilt and regret washed over him, threatening to pull him under. "I remind myself every time I look at you." He stopped himself from saying any more: so much more. That he thought her strength and fierceness was breathtaking. That he didn't know how to go on with his life without her filling it with fire and warmth. 

"Why?" Arya's voice was so quiet and close, startling him into looking up to see her kneeling before him. Gendry wished he could look away, never again to see his own heartbreak reflected in her steely eyes. She was like steel, tempered solid by cold, yet it seemed he was melting her down as she melted him. 

"So I don't hurt you," he rasped, unable to clear whatever was choking his throat. 

"You're hurting me now!" Arya lurched forward, grabbing both of his hands in her small fists and pulling them under her chin. She turned her face into his hands and hid her eyes behind his knuckles, a bit of dirt rubbed off of him and onto her freckled nose. The dark smudge was surely a gods-honest warning: his hands could only dirty her. "It hurts so badly - I've never felt pain like this before!" 

"I know." Gendry did know: he believed she cared about him but that was simply because she was all alone and he was the only one around. As soon as she was safe with her family and back to living in a castle, Arya would forget him. That was how it should be: he could never fault her for doing what was right by her family. In the same way, he could not fully blame himself for wanting to keep her. 

"Then - why?" Arya's eyes popped back up sharply, wide with irritated curiosity. "No," she shook her head, "whatever you say I'm just going to argue with - I'm done arguing." Her grip on his hands loosened, as did the desperate look on her face. "I want to hold you again," she whispered, lips parted and eyes filling with a shiny desire he started to recognize. 

"Shouldn't've done it the second time," his voice grew deeper. The cautious words in Gendry's brain, shouting at him to back away, quieted without much of a fight. 

"Then why did you?" Arya moved a little closer, her breath swept over him, blinding him to anything but her. He could still think of all the reasons he shouldn't but all the reasons he should started to shout louder. If he couldn't control himself then he truly was a bastard!

"I knew it would be the last time: it was the last time." Gendry's voice finally cracked as he said it out loud, wishing she was just little older so he didn't have to explain the way the world works. 

"What about me? Don't I get a say?" Her desperate question cut through his self-pity. "Did you think you were only holding me? I was holding on too!" Arya made a point he hadn't considered, she was already more attached than he thought. "I know you liked it because that's what a hard um-" Oh hells, Gendry gulped. "Anyhow, I felt the same way - I think. No, I did! I wanted-" 

"Don't!" Gendry covered her mouth with his hand and pulled her between his knees, turning her to press her back against his chest. "Don't say anything more: just don't." He released his hand and nearly couldn't believe it when she remained silent: for once. "Gods save me: this is why I need to keep some space between us. You aren't afraid of anything like other girls would be." 

"Why should I be afraid, Gendry?" Arya twisted in his arms, trying to face him, but he only wrapped her tighter in his embrace and rested his chin on her crown. She puffed out a frustrated noise and gave up struggling. "I'm only afraid when I think you're leaving me. My father was the most important person in my life - he loved me for who I am and not for the proper lady I could be. I lost him because I couldn't do anything to save him." 

"I'm sorry." Gendry couldn't bear the sadness in her voice when she spoke of her father: she rarely ever talked about Lord Stark. He never had a father but knew what it was like to live without one. How much more unbearable would it feel to be loved by his father before growing up without him? He couldn't imagine how awful that must have been for her. She turned in his grasp again and this time he let her. 

"Don't be sorry!" Arya drew up on her knees and cupped his face between her hands to tilt his head back, piercing him with her hard grey eyes. "Just don't make me lose you too - you swore to stay with me!" Her expression softened in a way Gendry was sure not many people saw from this fierce little lady. "You defended me before you knew me and recognized that I'm a girl when no one else did. You made me feel-" 

"I never meant to hurt you." Gendry gently tugged her hands from his face and pressed her fists against his aching chest. He almost wanted her to feel his pain, just for a moment: then she wouldn't ask him to torture himself. If she knew how much it hurt him to want her, knowing he could never have her, would she let him go? She yanked loose from his hold to throw her arms around his shoulders and crushed herself against him. 

"Then, was it all a lie?" Arya was nearly whimpering but she still wouldn't cry. His brave girl was too hard on herself. "Would your cock get hard even if you held Hot Pie all night?" Gendry coughed and sputtered at her words, grabbing her narrow shoulders and yanking her back to gape at her defiant expression. 

"Bloody gods, Arry!" Gendry didn't know what to say and she only furrowed her brow and slanted her head forward to glare at him. His neck went limp as his head lolled backward in defeat with a whining groan. "What in the seven hells am I going to do with you?" Then he started chuckling as Arya's question sunk in. "Hot Pie was kind of sweet-looking in a round way- Ugh!" She punched him hard: in the gut. "That," he croaked, "hurt." 

"Good." Arya scowled at him before throwing her arms around his neck again. She molded her slim body against his and he surrendered to her embrace, forgetting his soreness. "I'm not going to let you go, not even you can stop me." He laughed, not for an instant did he think she meant anything other than exactly what she said. Mayhaps the threat was almost like a promise? Gods save him. 

"I don't doubt that, milady." My wolf girl.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/ghosts/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176838147)

# Brienne

Lady Catelyn Stark and Brienne stopped by a river to water their horses and neither could hold back from discussing the dark shape they saw kill King Renly. To her, there was no question: that thing was Stannis somehow. He used some kind of dark magic and Lady Stark was understandably shaken by the gruesome ghostly scene she witnessed. However, the lady seemed reluctant to agree that Stannis was the perpetrator.

"It looked like Stannis," Brienne insisted: she had seen the man in person and knew what he looked like. The dark shadow looked tall, lanky, and gloomy: just like Stannis. Lady Stark turned away with a vexed expression, seemingly not convinced of what she saw.

"To me it just looked like..." The lady's words trailed off before she turned around and shrugged her shoulders. "A shadow in the shape of a man." Lady Catelyn was unconvinced exactly who the shadow was but at least agreed it was shaped like a man.

"In the shape of Stannis," she maintained with emphasis. Brienne had seen him more recently than the last time Lady Stark must have. The lady looked distraught by the disagreement, walking away from the small stream to tend her horse. Brienne brought her own mare up from the brook to join the lady, not pressing any further.

"We should reach my son's camp tomorrow." The lady changed the topic, clearly not fully ready to discuss the dark thing they both beheld. Brienne was grateful they were only one more day's ride from Robb Stark's camp. She was comfortable in her saddle but worried the lady was not taking it well, though she never once complained.

"Will you stay there long, My Lady?" Brienne partly hoped to join Lady Catelyn's service but did not want to be too forward, assumptions lead to disappointment. Besides, she still had a duty to complete: justice for her king.

"Only long enough to tell Robb what I have seen," she shook her head. "After that, I will leave for Winterfell." A ghost of a smile alighted Lady Stark's face before it was extinguished by a more serious expression. "My two youngest need me... I've been away from them for far too long." Seeing Lady Catelyn's longing for her children caused Brienne's heart to yearn for something she never had.

"I never knew my mother." Brienne just sort of blurted it out yet felt oddly comforted by the older woman's sympathetic expression.

"I'm sorry," she said sadly. "My own mother died on the birthing bed when I was very young." Lady Stark's weariness caught up with her as she took a seat near the small fire Brienne made.

"It's a bloody business." In some ways, it was lucky that no man would want a beast such as herself for a wife: at least she was spared the duty of bearing children. Giving birth to men's children stole the lives of too many women and any daughters are destined for the same fate.

"What comes after is even harder," the lady sighed as she relaxed on a moss-covered rock, rubbing her right knee. Brienne worried about that knee but knew better than to wound Lady Catelyn's pride.

"Once you're safely back amongst your own people, will you give me leave to go, My Lady?" Brienne felt that she and Lady Catelyn were kindred in a way, that the older woman would understand the need for vengeance. Her sword would not stop until she had pursued Stannis to the ends of Westeros and found his heart.

"You mean to kill Stannis," the lady wasn't asking a question, she knew exactly what Brienne intended to do. First, she would see Lady Stark safely home to Winterfell.

"I swore a vow," she reminded Lady Catelyn. Her vow to Renly meant more to her than this woman or any person could possibly know. She loved him as a king and as a man: Brienne of Tarth loved Renly Baratheon. She would not rest until justice was carried out and his murder was avenged.

"But Stannis has a great army around him," the lady warned, as if Brienne did not understand the danger. "His own guards are sworn to keep him safe."

"I'm as good as any of them." Her opponents always underestimated Brienne but she knew just how to take advantage of their arrogance. Men were always overconfident: it made them vulnerable. Who was the weak one, the true coward? Brienne turned her eyes to the ground with self-disgust. "I should never have fled."

"Renly's death was no fault of yours," the lady tried to reassure her. "You served him bravely." Brienne knew that that she could not fault herself not being able to fight dark magic, but that only made it harder to swallow. How could Stannis do such a thing to his own brother, a generous and kind man? Renly was a good king and even had a beautiful queen by his side: Brienne never even envied the girl.

"I only held him that once: as he was dying," her heart was breaking all over again. Brienne could not hold onto her secret devotion any longer because something about Lady Catelyn made her want to let everything go. The lady rose to her feet and walked to stand directly in front of Brienne, looking straight in her eyes.

"He's gone, Brienne." Lady Catelyn Stark was a forceful woman when she wanted to be. She made people want to listen to her. "You serve nothing and no one by following him into the earth. Renly's enemies are Robb's enemies as well." There was a ring of truth to the lady's words and it seemed she used up her remaining strength as she slunk wearily down to a nearby log.

"I do not know your son, My Lady," she started carefully, "but I could serve you if you would have me." Brienne wanted Lady Stark to know she was admirable. "You have courage. Not battle courage perhaps, but: I don't know, a woman's kind of courage. And I think that when the time comes, you will not hold me back. Promise me that you will not hold me back from Stannis."

"When the time comes, I will not hold you back." Lady Catelyn gave her word seriously and Brienne was sure she meant it. She drew her sword and laid it on the ground between them as she took a knee.

"Then I am yours, My Lady." Brienne swore fealty to Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. "I will shield your back and give my life for yours, if it comes to that. I swear it by the Old Gods and the new." She nearly cried when the lady took her hand.

"I vow that you shall always have a place in my home and at my table." Lady Catelyn stared seriously into her eyes, touching Brienne's heart with an oath she did not have to make. "And that I shall ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the new."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/question/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176833069)

# Shae

Her lady always rises early to ready herself for court in case her 'beloved' darys called for her. The King did not like to be kept waiting. Shae didn't like getting up early, and not just because her lion kept her up so very late. She smirked, thinking of the way he devoured her last night with a ferocity she hadn't seen in him since the battlefield. He was starting to realize they never left the battlefield, only their location.

Tyrion was so sweet, the way her kelioitsos tried to warn her of the 'dangers' they were in, 'we've come to a dangerous place', he says. And she would not know this, why? Because Shae is just a whore - a 'funny whore' who Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the 'King', likes to fuck. Still, it was nice that he cared about her safety and she loved him for that. If she had to, she would kill him in his sleep but she would also fuck or kill anyone to keep him safe.

She knocked on her lady's door, not waiting for an answer before breezing in to see Lady Sansa sitting at her vanity. Her hands were holding up parts of her upswept hair, as if trying to adjust them, only to have them fall haphazardly. The girl huffed at her reflection before turning a forlorn look towards her maid. Shae sighed and shut the door before walking to stand behind lije Lady Sansa to survey the damage.

"My lady," What could she say? It was bad, though it was not her lady's fault because this hair was never done properly. The messy style was a shame, because Shae loved Lady Sansa's striking flame-colored oghar. No, this would not do. "Your hair looks stupid."

"How dare you tell your lady her hair looks stupid?" Fire sparked to life in the lady's narrowed eyes, gone was her sad little pout as she lifted her chin. Shae just gave the girl that look, the one that says: 'you know what the fuck I am talking about'. Then the most breathtakingly elegant grin graced the girl's mouth, she was such a lovey child it was impossible not to love her. Except for the 'king', he wished to see the lady break.

"I dare because I don't want my lady to look stupid." She gave Lady Sansa a wry grin, glad to see the child had some spirit left. "The other handmaidens will mock me." Shae felt happy when her riña lifted a hand to cover her mouth and pinched her lips together to hide her chuckling. Lady Sansa could not hold back any longer, closing her eyes as the laughter burst through her lips. Ah, her lady was so beautiful when she laughed, like the song of a tropical bird.

The happy sound died in the girl's throat as she suddenly began crying and then sobbing in earnest. Lady Sansa took care not to let servants see her emotional and weak, Shae felt somehow guilty. She had forgotten what it felt like to have a haedar, now she barely remembered what her younger sister looked like. This lovely girl had no one to look out for her, she was all alone in this city and far too innocent to stand on her own.

Shae gently grasped her shoulders and turned Lady Sansa towards her. Tilting up the girl's tear covered chin, she looked her lady in the eye. She saw a pretty and lonely child who probably had not even smiled since her father died. How could anyone be so brutal as to make this lovely creature feel sad? The begisto king was truly a monster.

"My lady," she spoke softly, knowing her usual manner and accent could sometimes be harsh. "You are allowed to laugh." The girl averted her eyes but Shae tightened her hold and spoke with more force. "You are alive, every day is a gift, and it is a waste to spend your life miserable!" Her lady acted va morghe like a ghost when she had the right to be alive and smiling! It is known: Mirri odria uepi dori dreji zgieñisi.

"You speak out of turn." Lady Sansa's tone cooled as her teary eyes filled with ice. Since coming into this lady's service, Shae had been watching the girl closely. She had tended her bruises after they beat her, Lady Sansa would allow no one else. It had puzzled her at first, this highborn girl showing trust towards a lowly handmaiden, and then she understood that Sansa liked her blunt honesty. The opposite was usually true but Shae understood her lady had enough of lies.

"I speak the truth," Shae told her, knowing it was the right thing to say. The sad smile that came to Lady Sansa's lips was still a surprise. This young lady really did love honesty, as expected considering her situation.

"You remind me of someone," the girl told her. Was she thinking of her mother? Shae hoped not, there was a reason she did not have children despite being fucked thousands of times. Who was this woman that she reminded her lady of?

"Is she as beautiful as me?" That was doubtful, not many women were. Lady Sansa surprised her again by bursting into laughter once again until she cried! But this time they were healthy tears! Jisas'z: now her lady will feel refreshed.

"Shae," her lady finally calmed down enough to speak, "thank you for being honest with me." Lady Sansa was being sincere and her sincerity was heartbreakingly charming. If only this blushing innocent maiden knew how to use her unassuming coy beauty.

"My lady, I will be honest with you when I can," she meant every word. "That does not mean you should trust me." Shae would try to protect Lady Sansa but she would not let the girl believe she could trust anyone: not even her. Shae would betray the girl if she had to, her lady would not be the first person she loved and betrayed.

"Can I at least trust you to keep making me laugh?" Lady Sansa asked for so little, it was hard to deny anything to those big kastyz eyes.

"Of course, my lady, I am Shae: the funny handmaiden." Shae could get used to be laughed at, both by her lady and by her lion. She cupped the girl's soft face between her hands and wiped the tear tracks away with her thumbs. "Now, let's see if we can fix this hair." As she pulled the pins out of her lady's fiery hair, Shae vowed to herself: Jaehossi Uepossi Arl'ssi, she would care for this riñitsos and serve her loyally.

That brutal little boy who sat on the ugly metal demalion would try to hurt her lady again. Shae would do everything in her power to help this girl become stronger. For now, all she could do was ensure that her lady was the loveliest woman in court, too easy a task. Being the most beautiful was not good enough: Lady Sansa would make every other woman in the room look like an ugly uepa hag.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/reflect/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176835282)

# Joffrey

Boring, boring - none of these doublets was dyed the right color! Didn't these fools understand the common tongue? 'Blood colored', how much clearer could he be? Joff could be generous and admit he hadn't specified how fresh the blood was - not that it would have mattered. The king laughed and the servants around him didn't know how to mind their own damned business. He sneered at their ugly faces until they scurried away.

What he wanted was the exact shade of Sansa's fresh blood against her pale chin. It was so pretty, even prettier than the tears that came so easily to the silly girl's eyes. She had been unexpectedly amusing in court - aptly calling Lancel a coward! She was beginning to please him again, almost more than when she had been silent and pretty. A king needed a pretty wife to give him handsome sons and he didn't have to pretend to be nice to a traitor's daughter.

Was there something defective about her womanhood? She was so old and did not have her blood yet. Mother said it was not uncommon but Joff doubted she knew what she was talking about. He would have to talk to Pycelle about a way to force Sansa to start bleeding. He would also arrange more servants to keep a closer eye, in case she was hiding the blood somehow. How much could it possibly be and what hue of red?

His father once joked - just after the betrothal - that Lady Stark was fertile and so her daughters would be. He said Robb Stark was conceived on his parents wedding night. Joff hoped he could get a son off Sansa that soon, it already took nearly a year to make the child. He wished there was some way to make it go faster, right now his only heir was Tommen and that weakling could never be a king. 

His brat brother was too spineless, too obedient. Mother and grandfather would pull the strings and Tommen would dance like a little puppet. Joff's boredom was making him irritable! Perhaps he should have Sansa attend him in court again, so she might continue to amuse him - if not, he could play with her instead.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/waiting/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176835851)

# Sandor

"Dog! Get in here." His grace was calling his dog - might as well go see what the little brat wanted. Sandor entered the royal chambers to see three servants, holding up no less than four doublets each, for the prince to select. Joff shook his head refusing all of them with a sneer and waved them away with his hand. The servants scampered away to gather more useless frocks for the king to frown at. "Distract me, I don't care what you say, I'm bored out of my skull."

"I'm sure you heard that Robb Stark went and married a Frey?" Sandor lifted a brow at the boy, busy preening in front of a full-length mirror as servants bustled around him. 

"That's how he was able to take Riverrun from Uncle Jamie - that fool." Joffrey shook off the lowborn hands fixing his appearance and turned towards his dog with a grin. "He's supposedly as good a warrior as you but a mere boy bested him in battle."

"It's true," Sandor nodded, "your uncle is a fierce man, but he underestimated the Stark boy's strategy." His Grace didn't seem pleased by his dog's answer but it was an honest one.

"Mother says Lord Frey is a lecherous old man and probably already had the girl before marrying her to the pretender." Won't make a difference who's had her - is what he should have said - whatever brat she squeezes out would be Robb Stark's heir. "You went over The Crossing once, during the Greyjoy rebellion, did you see Lord Frey then?" He thought the boy had grown out of wanting to hear his war stories.

"I did see Lord Walder Frey in passing once," Sandor shrugged, "he was near ugly as me and twice as foul." Joff smirked at the blunt answer - at least the boy's mood improved. "Might be Robb Stark won't be able to fuck his wife, if she takes after her lord father." The brat always did love his dog's foul mouth, throwing back his head and cackling happily. Hopefully, this improvement in his mood continued.

"Good one, dog. Let's hope that's the case." Joff turned back towards the mirror and beckoned the servants to continue dressing him. "That reminds me, I want Sansa to attend me in court today - go get her."

"Yes, your grace." Sandor didn't want to agree - usually he relished the chance to be close to the little bird. After drunkenly accosting her, he'd done his best to avoid the girl except when he gave her his cloak. That had been right chivalrous of him and he shouldn't've done it. Serves no purpose, pretending to be a good man when he clearly wasn't. Good men don't corner little girls in dark hallways.

"Wait," Joff called out as Sandor was about to open the door, "and dog? Try not to scare her too badly beforehand. I like to be the one who makes her cry." Buggering boy knew how to cut right to the heart. Did he know? No - there's nothing for that Stupid boy to 'know'. He didn't feel like responding, so he walked away. The king didn't notice - already back to berating his servants and accusing them of colorblindness.

When the hound walked through the halls of the Red Keep, people got the fuck out of his way - highborn and smallfolk alike. That suited Sandor just fine, none of these bloody fools was worth talking to. He took his usual route to the little bird's chambers, going out of his way to avoid seeing anyone. It annoyed him, no matter what they did - stare or avert their eyes. He chuckled at the thought of someone actually greeting him.

Sandor stopped 'guarding' Sansa's chamber and avoided her since that night. 'I don't know any songs, not anymore'. Had the little bird's wings finally broken, or was a wolf born? He could never forget, no matter how bloody drunk he was, the fire and ice in her glare. He'd truly thought nothing could be more alluring than her innocence - until he saw the strength and fight in her eyes - the wolf. It was getting harder not to approach her.

Who would she be when he knocked on her door? The proper little bird, ready to chirp for her 'beloved' - or the northern wolf princess, ready to strike? Sandor was far too excited to find out. Down dog - little bird or wolf - she's not for you. He rapped on the door three times and it flew open to reveal a dark-haired handmaiden. She put her hand on her hip, raised her eyebrows, and just stood there.

"His grace requests the lady's presence in court today," he explained. The woman stared at him, dark eyes filled with apathetic annoyance. "I'm to escort her." The maid nodded but maintained her indifferent stare. It unnerved Sandor because usually women looked anywhere but at his heinous face.

"Wait here," she said. Obviously, he was going to fucking wait here, what else would he do? Sandor settled in for a long wait, he'd spent plenty of time waiting for nobles - ladies and lords alike - to get ready. Surprisingly, it did not take very long - he'd only shifted his weight once. The lady was dazzling when she stepped out of the door, dressed in a pale lavender dress that made her hair look even brighter.

The hound looked away and started ahead, escorting the lady to court without a word exchanged between them. Sandor heard her light footsteps rushing behind him so he slowed his pace by half a step and the little bird nearly collided with his arm. Unfortunately, she caught herself just before her chest would have pressed against him. He threw an annoyed look back at her to see she was already looking up at him.

"Please, walk beside me," she said, her eyes unwavering. "I have something I must say." Sandor knew how badly he fucked up then, seeing her determined expression. The little bird wasn't going to forget he accosted her - no matter how many capes he gave her.

"If you're wanting an apology, little bird, I won't give it." He should - he knew he should - but why pretend it would change anything? It was hard enough, pretending he didn't want to drag her off somewhere and fuck her senseless. No amount of apology would convince the lady he was anything more than the king's dog.

"I was not..." The little bird seemed puzzled - was it not an apology she wanted? "I should not have to demand an apology." She hadn't meant to say that, made clear when she slapped her hand over her mouth. The hound wasn't pacified by her regret. He curled his fingers around her thin wrist and yanked her behind one of the chamber doorways nearby. Sandor pressed her into the corner and whispered in her ear.

"Careful now, little bird." The hound inhaled deeply - breathing in her sent and grinning when she gasped. Careful now - dog. His arms braced against the wall on either side of her, the closest he'd ever come to holding her. "Quit your chirping and do as you're bid - the king won't be pleased if you keep him waiting. He's been fussing about your brother's marriage to a Frey." With that said, he pulled away with difficulty.

"My brother?" For some fool reason, the little bird actually grabbed ahold of his arm. "Robb is married? To a Frey?!" Sandor should not have been surprised that she didn't know. What did these silly highborn ladies gossip about? Dresses, hair ribbons, and handsome knights - fucking fools.

"Little bird," he snarled. "You best pay attention - what you know can save you." Sandor thought he was being an arse to her but she - bloody hells - beamed sweetly at him. When Lady Sansa averted her eyes, as she normally did, it was easy enough to pretend he didn't want her and remember she wasn't for him. If this girl ever realized the power she had over him, he was fucked. He never used to wish he could lie to himself before he met the little bird.

"Thank you." She was still smiling up at him, her hand still on his arm. The hound remembered Arys Oakheart's boast that he could easily seduce Lady Sansa with kind words. Might be even he could have more than a smile from her - if he could speak gentle honeyed words. Bugger that.

"Don't do that," he growled, brushing her hand off his arm. "Don't chirp at me, little bird."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/cornered/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=176839646)

# Sansa

"Don't growl at me, dog." The hissed retort was almost worth his eyes widening in surprise, until they filled with dark ferocity she should have expected. The hound took a step towards her, forcing her back toward the wall. Sansa braced herself for his reaction, expecting the worst, and nearly swooning from relief when he did not grab her. It was a dangerous game to play yet she felt certain this man would not hurt her.

"Little bird's grown brave," he rasped quietly, his face was nearly touching hers but she did not pull back because she would not show fear to the hound! Also, she truly feared ruining her hair on the wall. "Try to grow some brains in your senseless head." Sansa tilted her chin up a fraction and lowered her eyelashes to glower at the hulking man.

"Maybe then I could understand," Sansa's sharp tongue was working faster than her mind. "Why you would endanger my reputation and then protect my modesty." She apparently said the right thing, the hound was sneering, but he had no response. "If anyone but Lord Tyrion found you holding me in a dark hallway... My betrothed, the king, would already know of it and both of our heads might have ended up on the wall!"

"I wa-was-" The hound stuttered and cleared his throat. "I didn't-!" His nostrils flared in frustration, his glower deadlier than ever... and all Sansa wanted to do was laugh in his face. He must have seen the tiny smirk that she was trying to fight because suddenly his expression went blank and he pushed off the wall and away from her. "Don't flatter yourself, girl - I wasn't 'holding' you. I said you're 'almost' a woman - you're a pretty one but still a silly little maiden."

"Nevertheless..." Sansa was hurt more by his dismissal than she even wanted to admit to herself. "You put my reputation at risk. To a 'silly little maiden' reputation is everything!" To her surprise, the hound suddenly turned away to grumble something under his breath. He stared at the wall for a long moment, fingering his sword's hilt while his aloof posture indicated that he forgot she existed.

"Might be," the hound spoke begrudgingly. "You're right." Oh, those heavenly words! How long had it been since someone told her she was 'right'? Sansa was the perfect child so her parents hardly ever scolded her compared to her brothers or Arya. She was so used to being adored and trusted, the weight of the contempt she received in Kings Landing was crushing her.

"I am." Sansa could not hold back a grin anymore and her amusement seemed catching because he smirked as well and gave a small snort. Was she... seducing the hound? She had nothing to compare it to, except for trifling flirtations with Joffrey and those were a mere farce. This interaction felt more like the companionship of her brothers... safe and comfortable, like being with a friend.

"Don't get cocky, little bird." For the briefest of instances, Sansa thought she was hearing his voice in her head. 'Give him what he wants'. A realization hit her so hard she nearly fell against the wall. She looked up at the fierce man, probably gaping at him but not caring. His own advice... worked on him. He wants her to smile at him! Sansa gave the hound her brightest smile and the change that came over him was astonishing.

The hound relaxed his shoulders, posture and expression... everything about him became softer. Sansa did not have to pretend because she felt genuinely happy. She never learned to trust her instincts or use guile in Winterfell to protect herself. Though trusting the hound not to hurt her had been a risk, it felt unbelievably refreshing to be 'right'! Then, as quickly as it had come, the softness left and the hound returned with a derisive snort.

"Save your smiles for court." He turned without another word, walking so fast Sansa could barely keep up without running. The pace was most unladylike but they tarried too long and were expected to arrive soon. An uneven brick was nearly her undoing, it caught the tip of her toe, and she nearly stumbled and stepped on her skirt. His hand, the same one that grabbed her in anger, caught her elbow just before she fell.

She decided not to thank him with words, smiling instead as he steadied her. The hound ignored her smile and continued their walk at a more manageable pace. Was it really that easy? Obviously, not all men want the same thing... the king was another headache entirely. Joffrey genuinely seemed to want her pain, or at least someone's pain. Sansa did not know if she could keep luckily redirecting his anger away from her.

No, it was not 'luck' that saved her. Sansa refused to question herself anymore, vowing to stay strong until Robb came to save her. This was a war, with many battles yet to come, and she was fighting for her life. Some instincts had been right about the hound and, for now, she must keep appeasing Joffrey by giving him what he wanted. They arrived at court early still, lords and ladies were only just beginning to gather in the throne room.

"My lady," Joffrey called to her from his throne as soon as entered, already walking towards him. "Come join me." Her stomach turned when she noticed Queen Cersei was not present. The king was always worse when his mother was not around. Sansa gave him her most practiced smile and hurried to take a seat at his side. "Tell me my lady - did my dog scare you when he escorted you here?"

"Your Grace," she arranged her features to appear innocently serious... at least she hoped she did. "I would be a fool to not fear a warrior as fierce as the hound." Sansa could almost remember why she had thought Joffrey was handsome when he genuinely smiled. Not his usual cruel smirk, but one that reached his eyes... his grace's good mood made her immediately suspicious.

"You're not quite the fool my mother says you are." Joffrey said it as if he was paying her some great compliment so she beamed at him like she felt the same way. Inwardly, she wanted to choke the life out of him and that gratifyingly gruesome image lifted her mood. Joffrey and the hound had one thing in common, both liked her smiling. So she smiled until her cheeks hurt, a small price to pay for her survival. "Bring out the first offender!"

Her stomach clenched as she realized today Joffrey would amuse himself by doling out various harsh punishments to powerless smallfolk. Today she could not speak out of turn. The hound would not continue to save her if she constantly put herself at risk. The first peasant, a boy of about her age, was dragged in front of the throne... his pants wet from pissing himself from fear. 'May his pain be swift', she prayed. As with all wars, the cost and the body count could only rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'Ghost of Harrenhal' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> Ugh, *not* a good week - though at least the suffering was interesting. Couple mornings ago a fever seemed to come out of nowhere, accompanied by not a single symptom otherwise aside from a stiff neck. It was one of the worst fevers I've had in years! I could barely walk! Then, quick as it came, it left again - and so did my vivid dreams. I wonder... were the dreams disturbing my sleep and compromising my immune system: or a preceding symptom to some kind of virus?
> 
> It's fascinating really, how little we actually know about the human body and why it does what it does. Dreams, for instance, are still largely mysterious as to their purpose. Due to my abounding curiosity, I would've tried to become a doctor but I've too much empathy and seeing sick people day in and day out would destroy me emotionally. It's unfortunate because in my experience, the one thing the medical industry could use more of (especially among doctors) is empathy. What a sad quandary...
> 
> Well, those are my thoughts which nobody asked for. Good day, ya'll.


	8. Lies We Tell Ourselves

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/letter/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177395125)

# Robb

It was important to walk among the men: to make them feel like he was one of them and did not think himself above them. At least, that is what Robb told himself. His eyes scanned the camp, always searching for her until they found whom they were hoping to see. Lady Talisa sat beside a fire in the camp, her lustrous hair unbound and shining in the sun. He wondered if it would feel as soft to touch as it appeared.

She was bent over, writing on a piece of parchment, stretching the gentle slope of her waist and emphasizing her graceful neck. She turned to look back for an instant but did not see him, which Robb instantly regretted. If she noticed him then he was only being polite by speaking with her. However, if he approached her: his indecision was cut off as his feet carried him to stand behind the young woman.

"Lady Talisa," he called her name, half-hoping she would not hear him so he might flee in cowardice. She turned on his approach, revealing a wary expression on her striking face. Then the lady recognized him, quickly setting down her quill to turn her attention full on Robb.

"Your Grace," she looked up, a lovely smile alighting her face. Was she that happy to see him? "I'm not sure I'm a lady." Lady Talisa rose gracefully with composed poise. "Westerosi customs are still a bit foreign to me." She beamed more brightly at him, making his heart race.

"It's hard to keep all the rules straight," he joked. "But if I remember my lessons, a woman of noble birth is always called a lady unless she's a queen or a princess." Robb shook his head and gave Talisa his most charming smile. "I could find someone who knows."

"Why are you so sure I'm of noble birth?" Lady Talisa appeared uncomfortable discussing herself. Robb suspected she behaved this guardedly only with him.

"Because it's obvious." Robb noticed the graceful way she carried herself: standing tall and proud as every lady is trained from birth to hold herself. His mother stood that way, as did his younger sister Sansa, not Arya though. In a way, Lady Talisa reminded him of all of them but stronger, more beautiful, and even fiercer than all of them combined. They would adore her if they ever had the chance to meet.

"What if I told you," she rose to meet his gaze, rising to her full height in all her beauteous glory. By the Gods, she was exquisite. "My father sold lace on the long bridge and my mother, my brother, and I lived with him above our shop?"

"I'd call you a liar," he countered, resisting the urge to grin. She denied being a lady, and yet everything: from the pride in her eyes to the way she spoke revealed her true identity. A lady may leave her castle but she cannot hide her noble upbringing.

"Not very noble - to accuse a lady of dishonesty." Lady Talisa pouted prettily, shifting Robb's focus from her bewitching eyes to her full lips. Glancing away, she smiled sheepishly. "I always thought I was a brilliant liar." Then her eyes lowered modestly as a delighted smile curled her distracting lips, as if she had a secret too good to tell.

"Better at amputations, I'm afraid." Robb's morbid joke seemed to pull Lady Talisa out of her revere and remind her where they were. "Quite a pretty spot," he jested. Around them was nothing but mud, shitting horses, and muddy tents that smelled like the horses. Gods, war was a nasty business in so many ways. The filth and gloom surrounding her almost made the lady's beauty shine radiantly.

"Will we be here long?" Lady Talisa's question was plaguing his mind as well. Unfortunately, he had no answer. Robb would likely be strategizing with his bannermen late into the night. They wanted to move the kingslayer somewhere permanent in case they were attacked but Robb needed to keep the man close. Jaime Lannister was far too clever and valuable to be let out of his sight. Yet it pained him to admit that he did not fully trust his men to resist Lannister gold and cunning.

"I couldn't really discuss troop movements with you." Robb grinned as he answered. In truth, discussing such a dreary subject would waste the precious few moments they had together. Lady Talisa's wit and charm deserved an interesting topic and he preferred to see her smiling.

"I'm not a spy," she lightly scoffed a laugh at him. The lady was most attractive when she laughed: her warm eyes lit up, mesmerizing him.

"Of course a spy would deny being a spy," he countered with a grin. She tossed her head from to the side, rolling her eyes before resuming her modest pose.

"You're right," she said with mock shame before peeking up with a wide grin. "You've found me out." She lifted the parchment she held in her hands up, looking down as if to read what was on it. "I'm writing a letter to the Lannisters: 'The young wolf is on the move'." Robb chuckled at her jape, finding a moment of happiness in this seventh hell was pure bliss. He dreaded having to walk away but he knew he must soon.

"Perhaps you'd join me," he started to speak before he imagined a reason they should ever spend any time in each other's company. Her pretty smile turned to a frown at his words and Robb hesitated. "If you've got time, of course: for, well-"

"Robb," a familiar voice called from behind, saving and damning him with one word. He turned around to see his mother smiling until she saw past him to the young woman Robb was talking with.

"Mother," he finally found his voice. Robb quickly closed the distance between his mother and himself, reaching out to embrace her tightly. It seemed she had been gone a lifetime and he sorely missed her council. Yet her timing could not have been worse. "Mother, this is Lady Talisa," he introduced the ladies to each other. "She's been helping with the wounded. She's been very: helpful."

"Lady Talisa," mother greeted the woman with a smile and a shrewd appraisal. Robb gulped deeply and prayed for her approval.

"Lady Stark," Talisa looked nervous, making Robb uneasy as well. He was surprised this strong lady could be intimidated by anyone.

"Lady Talisa?" Lady Catelyn Stark always evaluated the status of a person's family before judging their character. Inwardly, Robb cursed himself for behaving the same way the first time he met Talisa.

"Maegyr," her answer made Robb suspicious, though he had no reason to be. It was an uncommon name to be sure but he should not expect to know every noble house in Volantis.

"Lady Maegyr?" His mother shrugged slightly with a polite smile: seeming not to truly care. "Forgive me, it was lovely to meet you, but I have missed my gooddaughter greatly while I was away." Robb's heart dropped into his stomach at his mother's words and Lady Talisa's wide-eyed reaction. "Come, Robb, we can visit her together." Right, he had almost forgotten again that he even had a wife.

"O-of course, My Lady," Talisa stammered her answer. His mother already began walking away, pulling on Robb's arm with surprising strength. "Your Grace," she called a farewell at their backs and he turned his head to catch one last glimpse of her before leaving.

"I've missed you," he told his mother. Lady Catelyn tightened her grip on his bicep and stared darkly at him.

"Yes," she said dryly, as her eyes examined his face. "You look positively forlorn."

"You surprised me," he stared straight ahead, avoiding her piercing stare. "That's all: I didn't think I'd see you today."

"I saw the way you watched that lady." Mother pulled him to a stop and blocked his path, placing both hands on his arms. Lady Catelyn Stark glared at him with a fury Robb rarely saw in anyone's expression, least of all his own mother.

"I've not-"

"You have inherited your father's responsibilities," she hissed angrily. "Will you repeat his mistakes as well?" Robb struggled to suppress the guilt and shame her words conjured along with his brother's face. Jon, his brother and the bane of Catelyn Stark's existence. He was frustrated, trying to understand her fear but she was being unreasonable! He had done nothing wrong!

"You misunderstand-" Robb winced in pain as her fingers dug into his arms, surprising him more than actually hurting him.

"None of that!" Mother visibly struggled to keep her voice down to prevent causing a scene. "I am twice your age and I've birthed five children and raised my husband's bastard. I know what it means when a man watches a woman. You are wed to another, think of her honor and your future children." The fury instantly fell from her face, as did her hands from his arms. "Please," she begged, the word cracking her voice.

"Mother," he drew her into a tight embrace. "I will never do anything to dishonor any member of my family." It wounded his pride that she had so little faith in her own son. "You have my word."

"Thank you, Robb." Mother pulled away from his embrace to dash away a few tears that had fallen down her cheeks. "I trust you but please, do not go near that woman." Robb only nodded in agreement, as he continued to lead her to his tent. In his head, he knew his mother spoke the truth. Yet his heart constricted painfully at the thought of never speaking with Lady Talisa again.

 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/news/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177414744)

# Merry

"Lady Catelyn!" Merry smiled when she saw who walked into the tent, only to have it vanish when her husband followed his mother with a grimace on his face. Where had he been? Part of her did not care to know anymore.

"Merry dear," Lady Catelyn looked positively thrilled to see her gooddaughter, a pleasant surprise. Merry stood to welcome her goodmother with a hug, foolishly forgetting to hold back her middle. "It's good to see you-" The lady folded her in a hug and then tensed as their bodies touched. Oh fiddle-sticks! Lady Catelyn Stark missed nothing... the woman could feel the gentle swell of Merry's stomach. "How long since you last bled?"

"Goodmother, I..." Her mind went completely blank! The older woman drew back and frowned as she studied her gooddaughter's form. Merry glanced past the lady's scrutinizing stare, seeing her husband's head snap to attention at his mother's question. "I have not bled for four moon cycles," she murmured, lowering her eyes to stare down at her slipper-clad feet. 

"Why did you not tell anyone?" Lady Catelyn took Merry's chin and lifted her eyes up to face the woman's irritated frown, obviously feeling betrayed by Merry's actions. "How long were you planning to keep it a secret?" Her goodmother released her, whirling on her son. "Did you know?" Robb only held out his hands in surrender, looking past his mother to his wife, and then down to stare aghast at her stomach.

"I..." Merry's eyes darted between her goodmother and her husband, both in shock and gaping at her. "I thought it best to be certain first." Lady Catelyn clucked her tongue disapprovingly at the pitiful excuse, opening her mouth to comment.

"Mother," Robb put one hand on his mother's shoulder, "please leave us." Merry stifled a sigh of relief, she dearly cared for her goodmother, but she craved speaking with Robb alone. They had not conversed in days, even if he was going to chastise her it was better than being disregarded completely.

"Robb-" Lady Catelyn started to protest but her son cut her off again with a firm shake of his head and a hand on the small of her back. Robb guided his mother toward the entrance of the tent as she threw a last reproachful look at Merry.

"This is between us, please leave." He was not asking, he was demanding. Lady Catelyn nodded curtly and walked out of the tent without another word. Merry braved a look up at her husband who closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh before dropping down to sit at the small table in the corner. "I can't believe I didn't notice. Merry, you didn't feel you could tell me?"

"I wanted to spare you added worries." Merry hoped to have a bit more time before her condition was revealed. "I did not mean to keep it from you..." Only his attention was rare as of late or else she would have already told him. Furthermore, she strove to ignore the gossip about an attractive healer he was said to favor. "I only meant to wait until you had to know."

"Until I had to know?" Robb propped an elbow on the table and lowered his forehead into his hand. "That I am going to be a father?" He snorted out a humorless laugh. "Of course I should know!" Merry rushed to his side, sitting down in the chair across from him, hurt and angered by his apparent disapproval. Had she not done precisely as he wished?

"We've lain together often enough," she huffed, irritated by his scolding after his recent cold treatment of her. "What did you expect to happen?" Robb gaped at her, shocked that his demure wife was daring to argue with His Grace. "I wanted everything to continue as it had been... to stay together a little longer! Is that so much to ask?!" Merry tore her eyes from his face and angrily swiped a fallen tear away.

"Wife," his voice softened but Merry knew better than to trust it. Softness was his way of calming others and she did not wish to be pacified. Robb reached out to take her hand in his, drawing her focus back to him. "I'm sorry if you are unhappy: after this child is born we can wait as long as you want to have another." Liar! She ripped her hand from his grasp and turned her back on him, hands balled into fists by her sides.

"That is not true and you know it!" Merry put a hand over her stomach, her voice hissing darkly. "This is why we wed, to give you heirs." She rounded on him, narrowing her eyes at his shocked expression. "If this one is a girl, I'll have another in me before she weans. That's the way of things..." At least then, he might come back to her bed. On a selfish whim, she prayed fervently for a girl child.

"Not for me, Merry." Robb rose and moved to stand in front of her, throwing his hands up in a show of innocence. "I won't touch you if you don't wish it-" More lies!

"Of course I wish it!" Merry screeched in a highly unladylike fashion, sure that every ear in the camp heard her. "Even covered in filth and grime from head to toe you are still the most handsome man I've ever seen." Robb had the poor sense to smirk at his wife's desperate words. "The gods were cruel to send me such a husband!" She ached for him every waking moment... all the while knowing the eventual result.

"It is easier winning battles than understanding you, wife." Robb believed all of life's problems might be dismissed with a pleasing smile or an honorable battle. Merry sighed sadly at his lack of understanding and stood to move to their bed, sinking onto it with a resigned groan.

"Please, Robb," she begged, not bothering to hold back her tears anymore. "Please don't send me away from your side yet." She stopped before it became impossible to cease begging him. Please do not treat me differently because I am with child. Please return to my side and our bed. Please tell me the rumors I hear about a beautiful healer are untrue...

"As usual," he sighed as he moved to sit down next to her and held her hand again. "We want the same things, wife. As usual, my own failures have caused you to misunderstand me." Looking up at Robb's smile was her undoing. "I'll never send you away, Merry." He tucked a stray hair behind her ear and held her tear-stained chin in his hand. "You are mine." Those three precious words were the nearest he came to saying that he loved her.

"You are a good husband," she told him honestly, pushing aside her unfounded distrust when she never was one to believe salacious rumors without proof. Merry wondered if it was even possible to stay upset with him. "Better than I ever dreamed." She tried to smile at him yet needless tears spilled down her face, the child made her weepy. Robb lifted his hands to cup her cheeks and wipe the tears away.

"Wife, I promise-" Robb let her silence his words, gently touching her fingers to his lips. Once more, Merry felt as if she was using some impermanent power and someday she would never be allowed to interrupt him ever again.

"I do not need promises, husband." Merry removed her hand to press it against her pained heart. Never in her life had she known this sort of heartache, and life had never been tranquil in The Twins. "I know the war is more important than my feelings. I only need your word that I won't be sent from your side."

"You have it." Robb smiled at her and Merry felt as if all would be well if she could only trust him. Her worries were silly and unfounded. He reached out a hand to help her to her feet and dragged down the covers. "Now rest," he pushed her gently down into the bed. "Eat whatever you like, and I will take care of everything." Tucking her in like a child, he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead before turning to leave.

"Thank you husband," she called at his back, wishing he were not constantly leaving her side.

"No thanks needed," he tossed a grin over his shoulder as he lifted the tent flap and winked at her. "My merry wife." Robb did not bother to hide how pleased he was that she was with child... that was something at least. She would do this for him and perhaps earn his affection in time. The entry flap fluttered closed and he was gone once again. 'I love you', Merry doubted she would ever be brave enough to say those words to him.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/sold/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177407447)

# Sansa

"May the Seven guide the princess on her journey," the High Septon prayed for Myrcella. "May the Mother give her health. May the Crone give her wisdom. May the Warrior give her courage." Sansa closed her eyes and sent her own prayer to the Old Gods. Nearly everyone from court gathered around the bay, in attendance to see Princess Myrcella board the smaller craft that would take her to a larger vessel in the bay. 

The Baratheon Princess was being sent to Dorne to House Martell to marry into their House. Just another little girl, being sold off by those who should protect her. Sansa watched the girl's blond curls fade out of view before subtly observing the crowd around her. The hound stood behind Joff, not once sparing a glance in her direction today. Since they last spoke, it seemed he was avoiding her but perhaps that was a silly romantic notion. Why should he seek her out to begin with?

The queen looked like she was attending a funeral instead of seeing her daughter off... the cold woman did have one weakness. Not that Sansa had any idea how to exploit that weakness but it made her feel better to see The Queen as simply a mother. Tommen was starting to sniffle as he held back his tears and her heart constricted with pity for the little boy, thinking of her own little brothers.

"You sound like a little cat mewling for his mother," Joffrey nastily mocked his brother. "Princes don't cry." Sansa had seen Joffrey cry and even beg for his life but she wisely bit her tongue. The little prince and princess had seemed rather close to each other while their older brother hardly spoke to them.

"His Grace is right, my prince, you must be brave and lead by example." Sansa smiled kindly at the boy, reminded of Rickon's tears when she left Winterfell. "Save your tears because they will not serve you as well as strength."

"Did I ask for your opinion, my lady?" Joff sneered at her, more annoyed than angry, making her realize she had overstepped. Sansa bowed her head and looked up at the king meekly.

"Forgive me, Your Grace." She held her breath, waiting to see if her transgression warranted punishment...

"Come, dog." The king called the hound and turned to strut away, everyone fell in step behind him. The hound... she had avoided looking directly at him, with so many attentive enemies nearby. Sansa almost laughed aloud at the thought of a Lannister suspecting she and the hound were 'friends'. She followed the procession through the streets of the city back to the Red Keep. Smallfolk were filling the streets, calling out to their king and begging for food.

"Who threw that?" Joffrey stopped ahead, yelling angrily. "I want the man who threw that - find who did that and bring him to me!" All of a sudden, the people began pushing against the Goldcloaks and Kingsguard holding them back. Sansa heard the king screaming. "Just kill them! Kill them all!" In panic, or perhaps rage, the smallfolk broke through the guards through sheer numbers and began to overwhelm the royal party.

Every guard rushed to surround the king and queen, abandoning the lower nobles to the enraged crowd. Sansa's heart raced as she, the ladies, and handmaidens around her were separated from the rest of the group. Her eyes darted from one place to another, looking for a way out and seeing none. 'Mother', she prayed, 'save us'...

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/riot/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177310501)

# Sandor

"What are you doing?!" The brat was screeching and squirming but Sandor couldn't very well brain the king could he? "I want these people executed!" Fuck this idiot boy, nearly getting them all killed over some shit on his face.

"And they want the same for you!" He stabbed some peasant in the face - might not have been a threat but the hound didn't care. Not many dared approach him while carrying the king in one hand and his broadsword in the other. Sandor roared and raised his sword at a wild-eyed fool that got in his way but the man only scampered away like a rat.

"Protect the King!" Finally, the fucking Kingsguard encircled the king as the Goldcloaks pushed back at the peasant mob. He passed the king into Meryn's waiting hands and then smashed his hilt into a man's skull. Then he spun around to tear his broadsword through some lowborn fool before grabbing another's head and crunching it against a wall. Where is she? Where's the little bird? Blood rushed through his head, pounding in his ears and drowning out the roaring crowd.

Sandor looked all around him, staying back as he watched the queen follow her son. He barely recognized the stab of pain crushing his chest - panic. Every lady that ran past him made Sandor's chest tighter as his eyes searched the mob for her bright hair. She wasn't coming. Rage, more or less comforting in its familiar coldness, overtook his fear. The hound snarled and plunged into the crowd.

Should've gone to her right away - fuck the king - slash, stab, kill, blood. Shouldn't've let her out of his sight, that fucking idiot boy hadn't even sent anyone out to look for her. The riot was waging all around, the smallfolk had predictably started attacking each other. He looked for any flash of red to signal she was among the crowd. Bloody seven hells! Little bird, where are you? Call to me, I'll keep you safe.

His feet led him as his sword hacked through flesh without a thought. Then he heard it - whimpering cries echoing down an alleyway. Following the sound led him to a scene that took his sight - he didn't see four men about to rape the little bird. The hound saw red - he saw their blood on his sword even before he gutted the first. These rats were fearless against a little girl but the second coward didn't even bother to run from death.

"Please," the third rat screamed before the hound slit his throat and the little bird gave a cry of fright. That soft sound reached Sandor through the blood - he turned to see her still sprawled on the dirty floor. She was terrified so he granted the fourth man his life, lucky bugger - the girl had seen enough death. Her eyes were wide with terror and she trembled, looking at him like he was a monster. Ungrateful fool.

"You're all right now, little bird," he forced his voice to stay calm - though it was a bloody lie. "You're all right." Sandor reached down to her and he was taken aback when she extended her own hand. A proper knight would have cradled her in his arms as he carried her from danger. Bugger that - he swung the girl over his shoulder and headed back to the castle. The Goldcloaks had beaten back most of the rioters.

Good thing nobody risked stepping into his way as he held the little bird's limp form on his shoulder. Sandor wouldn't've liked to kill any more in front of the girl - the hound probably would but Sandor didn't. That didn't even make any fucking sense as he long quit thinking of himself as anything but 'the hound'. Until the little bird showed up, and started chirping prettily around him, confusing his once simple life.

She clung to him, trembling but breathing steadily and not crying like he would expect. The small gate opened for him as he approached the keep. Taking long strides, Sandor hauled her into the keep and set her down at the base of a large pillar.

"Are you hurt, My Lady?" The imp's concern was so fucking touching - the half-man knew the girl's value better than the king did at least. She only stared at the little man, her expression something between boredom and hatred. Then her eyes glanced straight into Sandor's for an instant before glassing over and staring off at nothing.

"The little bird's bleeding," he growled at the women attending her. "Someone take her back to her cage, see to that cut." Sandor started to walk away, the panic that had once only been reserved for fire was dying. The little bird was bruised but she would heal, those fucking bastards didn't rape her. He saved her - she is alright - he repeated those soothing words in his head.

"Well done, Clegane." The little Lannister was testing the hound's last bit of patience. Didn't these fools realize that it took all of his control not to just kill them all? No, of course, a lord would never be afraid of his vassal - bloody stupid in his opinion. Trust is the greatest killer of them all.

"I didn't do it for you," he sneered, barely glancing back at the buggering lord before storming off to find the nearest kitchen. The servants scurried out of the hound's way, gaping like idiots when he picked up the closest rundlet of wine. He heaved it over the same shoulder that he carried the little bird on without explaining or paying for the small barrel. Nobody tried to stop him - they were all afraid of him and they should be.

The hound wanted to go back out into the riot and kill every fucking filthy peasant he saw. Then he would tear off the king's balls for letting those bloody rapers have the little bird. Then do the same to the imp for selling Princess Myrcella to Dorn in the first place. Then outright kill the 'hand of the king' for not settling the unrest with the small folk - for fuck's sake! They just wanted some fucking bread, was that really too much to ask?

Apparently, Tywin Lannister's war is more important to him than his family's safety - that's a fucking shock. The hound knew he should return to the king's side to guard him but this wine wasn't going to drink itself.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/clean/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177420292)

# Shae

She sat up on the bed as Tyrion burst into the chamber, slamming the door behind him. His little legs pumped furiously as he ran through the room to pour himself a goblet of wine. Shae waited for him to speak but got up to go to him when he remained silent. He drained the first cup, then filled another and drank that one as well before hurling the cup across the room.

"My lion, what is it?" Shae touched Tyrion on the shoulder and he shuddered, covering her hand with his own. Her poor kelioitsos, what has happened to him?! "What happened, tell me." She pulled on his shoulder to turn him around and collect his blonde head against her breast, curling her body above him.

"Shae," he whispered, "there was a riot among the starving peasants." Her lion's voice trembled as did his small body, and it filled her with fury at whoever frightened her man. "Gods, I slapped Joffrey across the face." Shae couldn't help it, she laughed out loud at his words. "It's not funny, this is serious." Despite his harsh tone, she could hear him trying not to smile.

"Oh, my lion is so brave," she tilted his head back and pecked little kisses over his face. "You face a riot and slap a king. I want you so badly right now." Shae chuckled throatily as Tyrion started to lift the hem of her handmaiden's gown. "My lady is alright?" She suddenly pulled back in worry. "She went to see the princess off - tell me!"

"Poor Lady Stark," Tyrion shook his head and sent Shae's heart into her throat. "She was attacked by the mob, I tried to order men out to save her, but my nephew told them to 'let them have her', the vicious idiot- Wait, where are you going?!" She already had one hand on the chamber door before her lion finished speaking. Looking over her shoulder, she arched one eyebrow, giving him bona morghe'laes stare - casually bold.

"She needs me." Shae saw his lower lip pout adorably but she stood strong against it. "You are a brave man and she is just a little girl who has no one." She spun fully towards him, crossing her arms over her chest. "I am going to her." Besides, who was going to stop her? Her favorite part of being with Tyrion was that he is toli'byka - too small to force her to do anything. Still smiling at him, she sashayed out the door.

She dashed all the way to Lady Sansa's room, heedless of any eyes that might have been watching her. Shae was out of breath by the time she hurried up the last steps leading to Lady Sansa's chambers but she fought through the weakness. Without knocking, she pushed into the room to see the disheveled girl surrounded by cooing women.

"Get out," her first words were breathless so she raised her voice at the handmaidens surrounding Sansa. "Get out!" Shae herded the maids towards the door and slammed it after the last one before rushing to her lady's side. "My lady," she ran her eyes up and down Lady Sansa's tousled appearance. "I came when I heard." She held the girl by her thin shoulders and just looked at her. "Those bastards."

"Shae," her haedar's voice was quiet and hoarse. "I would like to take a bath." Lady Sansa gripped her gown's collar with one hand and pointed at the fresh hot water with her other. Where was her mind?! Of course, the riña wanted to wash away the vaogenka filth on her skin.

"Let us get you out of this dirty dress and into a nice warm bath." Shae did not have to work at the dress laces very hard before the entire garment fell from Lady Sansa's body. She collected the tattered clothing and balled it up to take it away. "You never have to see this rag again-"

"No!" The girl cried out, reaching a hand to stop Shae. "No... I will repair it, like the other one." It took her a moment to remember that Lady Sansa had fixed the other dress that had been torn in court.

"My lady," she spoke gently as she held up the ruined fabric in her hands. "This dress cannot be repaired."

"It can," the lady whispered defiantly. Her clear blue eyes stared at the wall instead of looking at her handmaiden. "I will mend it. I will show them all that I am not so easily ruined." Gods no, the girl can't mean what Shae feared.

"Did they violate you?" Shae could not speak louder than a whisper - this child was so young, goodhearted, and so very innocent. To think those bonir bastards would have stolen that innocence was unbearable. Konir sagon kostos daor! She wanted to kill them all for even touching her lady!

"No." Lady Sansa's head twitched a bit before she gave a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes. The girl looked like she might be praying until she suddenly smiled. "He saved me." Shae exhaled the breath she was holding and nearly cried with joy. The anguish of being forced should never be felt by anyone, let alone a faultless child. 

At ten-and-one, Shae lost her own innocence at the hands of the first man who bought her. After that, she learned it was better to be paid for willingness - a whore is better than a victim. The next man praised her for being a 'good girl' and slipped her an extra coin, which she hid from the mistress who owned the whorehouse. One by one, those coins enabled her to escape that place and live a freer life.

"Whoever 'he' is," Shae could not help grinning, as she laid the ruined bundle down on her lady's sewing chest. "Maybe I should give him a kiss for saving my lady." Lady Sansa lifted her eyes and offered her own tremulous smile.

"I am not so sure he would like that." A stronger Lady Sansa lived underneath the smudged trembling child in front of her. Shae the Funny Handmaiden to the rescue - she put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side with a mock stunned look.

"I am hurt, my lady!" Shae pouted as she helped remove her lady's clothing and the sulky expression was rewarded with a breathy giggle. "There is not a man alive who would not love a kiss from me." She knelt before Lady Sansa to pull off her stockings and slippers, noting the new bruising on her fair skin. Fortunately, she easily hid her fury - having been a whore long enough to hide any emotion.

"This man is different from the rest... so very different." Lady Sansa's fascinated tone made Shae even more curious to find out who protected her. Perhaps she really should kiss him as a reward for his heroism. Or might it be possible that her lady wants to be the one to thank her savior properly?

"As you say, my lady." Shae smiled at the blushing riña, on the verge of womanhood, wondering who the mysterious rescuer was. She led the girl to the steaming tub and helped her ease into it. Lady Sansa winced a bit at first but settled in with a relaxed sigh.

"Shae..." The girl sounded uncertain but her brows narrowed determinedly, "how did you hear about the riot?" Shae wiped a washing cloth along her lady's arm, using the task as an excuse to avoid that questioning gaze. If she knew how, Lady Sansa could raise an army just with one forlorn gaze. Men are so easy, even Shae was not immune to the purity shining in her lady's eyes.

"Maids in the kitchen," the lie rolled off her tongue. It was believable because those women always knew everything the instant it occurred. Her stomach clenched with anger, thinking of the fear on her little lion's face as he related the tale, but she hid it with a smile. "I hear Lord Tyrion tried to send men to save you but the king said to 'let them have' you."

"Joffrey is no king," her lady seethed quietly. "He is only a bastard." Shae clamped a hand on top of Lady Sansa's mouth, something a maid should never do. She found the girl's eyes and spoke very carefully, making sure she understood the weight of her words.

"Never let anyone hear you say such things, my lady." She gentled her hand and smoothed it against her lady's cheek apologetically. Lady Sansa only looked away with shame, which made Shae feel even worse.

"You won't tell anyone... Would you?" The girl looked back at Shae with such loneliness that it broke her heart. Sweet Lady Sansa was far too trusting and it almost made her wish she could be a true dreje'raqiros to her. But friends can become enemies far too easily.

"I would, my lady, for my life or my safety," she answered honestly, "but no, not for any other reason. Money I can get, I have had it, and it's easily lost. The only thing we truly have in this world is our own life, and some do not even have that." Shae left out the only other reason she would betray anyone - revenge. Somehow, it seemed impossible to need vengeance against this girl, her ideribagon'haedar.

"I see," doubtful Lady Sansa really did know what Shae was trying to tell her but she might be starting to realize. "Thank you for your honesty, as always. It means more than you know."

"I have lied to you - today even, several times." Shae held the girl's wide eyes as she spoke, willing her to understand how dangerous trust can be. "You didn't know it, did you? I am a good liar - I have lied every day of my life." A single tear slipped down over her lady's pale cheek but she did not look away.

"You were lying... when you told me you heard about the riot from the kitchen maids." Lady Sansa was not nearly as foolish as others believed - everyone assumed pretty girls weren't smart. Shae nodded with a slight smile tugging at her lips, from pride in her lady. "I could not tell for sure, mostly it was just a feeling."

"That is lucky - it means you have good sense. Use that feeling, trust it." Shae turned her attention to her lady's shoulders as she spoke but the girl suddenly grabbed her wrist. The fabric of Shae's dress soaked with warm sudsy water but she was riveted by the fire in Lady Sansa's eyes.

"You can teach me," it was hardly a request, more like a command, but her lady finally said the magic words. Shae's lips curved into a gratified smile as she unclenched Lady Sansa's hands. The girl was no longer shaking and her eyes glowed with a new, stronger light like a wolf. She heard it said her lady was part zokla, perhaps it was true - better a wolf than a bleating bianor.

"I thought you would never ask, my lady." Shae tucked a lock of hair behind her zoklaitsos's ear before resuming the bath. "The first thing you must know - men have all the power. Sometimes they let women think they have power but we never do. For a woman to truly have power she must gain it through a man and all men want something."

"Give him what he wants," her pupil already knew this lesson and it made her proud. Shae began washing her lady's hair until the rich color was revived.

"Yes," but that was merely half the lesson. "Only if you can get what you want first. A man will lie to get what he wants - he does not want to give anything to have what he desires. All men believe they are owed whatever they want - it makes them angry when it does not fall from the gods into their laps."

"My father was a good man," Lady Sansa could not hold back her tears any longer. "My father wanted to leave... but I betrayed him because I wanted to marry Joffrey and I wanted to be queen." Shae could barely understand the girl's sobbed words. Fuck that monster darys who had her lady's father killed, and then managed to make the girl feel guilty.

"I believe you, my lady, but he gave you to that king who you call a bastard." Shae's words were not meant to comfort to the weeping girl but to open her wet eyes to truth. "Good men still use women because they do not see it as wrong. The mistakes you have made cannot be undone - like your dress, it will never be the same as it was. If you can be smart, you can make something better. Tell me, do you still want to be queen?"

"No!" Lady Sansa cried weakly, shuddering and gasping through her words. "I only want my family back!"

"Then, my lady, the king wants you for his queen and you want your family." Shae sensed that Lady Sansa could figure this out for herself if pushed just a bit. "What should you do?" The girl looked up in concentration, her eyes narrowed on nothing but her own thoughts floating in the air above her.

"I must find a way to use being queen to return me to my family." Her lady sounded unsure of her answer but Shae smiled approvingly. Her student learned quickly but she needed rest, the day had been more than tiring for her.

"Tonight you will sleep," a handmaiden rarely got to give her lady orders but the girl nodded obediently. "Tomorrow you will have a better answer."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/isle/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177432873)

# Arya

"Can you see it?" The morning was cool and clear as they rounded the mouth of the Blackwater Rush opening to the Gods Eye. A slight breeze made small waves lap up on the riverbank as she scanned the waterline. She cupped her hands around her face and whooped when she spotted the isle floating on top of the shimmering water. "There it is!" Arya raised her arms and tipped her face back towards the sky to express her gratitude to the Old Gods.

"I see it, right in the middle," Gendry sounded awestruck, pointing his finger so she could follow his sight. "Never saw a thing like that in my life." He hooked his thick arm around Arya's neck and drew her head to his solid chest to ruffle her growing hair. She laughed, shoving him off and brushing the hair from her face. 

"It's fantastic! I'll race yah," she shouted the sudden challenge, already running down the sloped ground to the lake's shore. "Go!" 

"Cheater!" Gendry did not sound angry in the least - what was cheating was his freakish long legs. She almost made it to the riverbank before two strong arms lifted her from behind and spun her around until they both fell. They lay on their backs to the ground - her legs slung over his and one hand grasped his. Their laughter faded into breathless pants before Gendry sat up and looked out to the water. 

"Arry, look!" Gendry shot up, knocking her down in the process - shouting and waving his hands at the water. "Hey: over here!" Arya rolled onto her knees and stood up, brushing off her hands and trying to see why he was going mad. "Wait! Hold on there!" A boat! Thank the Old Gods, they get things done, unlike the New Gods who just sit around and judge everyone. 

The small fishing boat turned its sails towards a nearby dock and started sailing towards it. Gendry broke into a run towards the dock and Arya was only a step behind him - clutching her small bag of supplies in both arms. The fisherman pulled up to the dock before Gendry made it, leaving Arya behind with his speed. 

"Good man," Gendry bellowed to the boatman. "My brother and I need to get to the Isle of Faces: can you take us?" He dropped his sack onto the ground, and tore a corner seam on the side to remove a stag hidden inside. As she caught up to them, she saw him holding out the coin so it glinted in the sun. The fisherman inspected the coin, then looked at Gendry and finally at Arya. She bent at the waist breathing raggedly. 

"I'm leaving now," the fisherman shrugged, motioning for them to follow him as he set his sail up again. As they boarded the boat, Arya noticed the way the fisherman regarded her with mild curiosity. She filled out her boy's clothes and her hair had grown a bit longer. They had been alone for so long she'd almost forgotten ever pretending to be a boy. Gendry noticed the man's attention too, and tried to distract him. 

"Thanks, we'll stay out of your way." Gendry grabbed her by the shoulder and led her to the aft of the boat. "Com'on, Arry." The man shrugged again as if he could not care less if 'Arry' was a girl or a kraken. Since there was no need to pretend, Arya leaned her head on his strong shoulder. He hesitated for just an instant before putting his arm around her. In silence, they watched the isle come into view.

Without even realizing it, Arya nodded off - soothed by the gentle rocking of the small craft. Gendry shook her awake as the boat made to dock on the Isle of Faces. A white-bearded man, who could be nothing else but a Green Priest, stood waiting on the shore. He was cloaked in a short grey robe and a green mantle with his hands clasped in front of him. 

"I've been expecting you," the man approached slowly as he spoke. Everything about him reminded her of calm, still water. Though the Green Priest had long white hair and beard, he appeared young with few lines in his fair skin. His eyes almost matched the color of his robe with flecks of lavender streaking out around the pupil. Arya thought he was the most unnervingly beautiful person she'd ever seen. 

"You know who I am?" Bloody hells! She cursed inwardly at the high-pitched squeak that dared to masquerade as her voice. Arya felt Gendry stand behind her right shoulder, moving into a supportive position. It was something the bull did - always let her take the lead. Like his cock did not automatically give him the right to dictate everything. She appreciated that about him, even if he did it because she is a 'highborn lady'. 

"You are a girl," the man replied cautiously, "and a wolf." Arya had come this far so she might as well trust the priest. She only nodded her answer, needing to hear him speak her name first. "Come, you must be hungry." They had no choice but to follow the priest because there were no clear paths into the woods - only a forest. After a few turns through the trees, Arya understood the route - follow the weirwoods. 

"I know you have many questions but you are tired from your journey." The Green Priest brushed his fingertips against every heart tree they passed, following the direction their faces pointed. Sometimes, strange rounded hills rose from the ground, as if they grew up underneath the trees. The priest always avoided those hills, choosing to walk around them instead of over. 

A clearing appeared ahead, revealing a large wooden lodge, flanked on each side with two rows of elongated wooden rounded huts. He led them to the peculiar longhouses and up to an open door. Arya smelled fresh baked bread wafting from the room and her stomach growled. 

"We prepared these rooms for you both." The priest pointed at the two adjoining doors, both standing open. "Please eat the bread with salt and rest well. I will answer all your questions tonight over supper. I will come back and fetch you at dusk." The Green Priest bowed slightly as he turned to leave. "There is already hot water and fresh robes for you-" 

"Hot water?!" Arya nearly fainted from joy - and she's not the fainting type. She dove towards the nearest open door, already pulling at the laces on her tunic's collar. "Oh, right - Gendry!" Her hand grabbed the doorframe to stop her rush, she looked back to see him grinning at her. "Hurry up and wash, I'll come over when I'm done." She dashed into the room before he answered but could hear him calling to her as she shut the door. 

"Just knock first, Arry!" His request fell on deaf ears. Arya already peeked a few times to see that Gendry had a fine body but she never got a good look. She seized and ripped a chunk from the fresh bread. Stuffing half the loaf in her mouth, she tore off her clothing and bounded into the steamy water - holding her bread up to keep it dry. Surfacing, she crammed the second mouthful in. The bathwater turned dingy from her filth as she scrubbed her body harder and faster than ever. 

Arya had never been overly fond of baths but did enjoy being clean - her skin was spotless in a matter of moments. She scrambled out of the tub and did not bother to dry off before tugging the short robe onto her body. It came down to just above her ankles - not much of a 'short' robe. Decent enough, she dashed out of her door and into his. What she saw make her mouth water. Gendry is certainly not a boy, a bull, or even a man - he's prey.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/place_to_rest/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177431822)

# Gendry

"Didn't I tell you to knock?" Gendry knew it was a waste of breath to grumble, Arry would do as she pleased. "Don't blame me if milady's innocent eyes get blinded by my cock." He turned his back to finish lacing up his breeches and bent to pick up the short robe. Before he could pull it over his head, Arry dashed forward and snatched the robe, hiding it behind her back. 

"Right," Arry laughed, "as if I haven't already seen your cock." Gendry growled, lunging at her as she took a step back to hop up onto the small bed. "Hey, I never asked you to piss in front of me - wait!" She dodged as he lunged at her again, jumping around him and back on the floor. "Don't put it on just yet," she hid the robe behind her back and held up a hand to stop him from attacking again.

"Com'on," Gendry held his palm up. "Arry, give it here." She stared at him with a pretty pout on her face, making him grin against his will. Arya shook her head, smiling as she narrowed her eyes and bent her knees: ready to run or pounce. "Hand it over!" Gendry finally landed a grip on the fabric and tugged but she was faster, pulling the robe from his fingers and sending it flying on the bed. 

"Nooooooooo!" Arya dove down onto the bed to curl her body around the balled up fabric they were fighting over but Gendry already forgot all about it. The position caused Arya's short robe to ride up, revealing her pale legs around the knee. He wrapped one hand around her ankle and pulled her towards the edge of the bed, bunching up her robe even higher. Locking her smooth legs between his, he pinned her wrists back above her head. 

"Well, milady," he panted breathlessly and grinned, "was this what you were hoping for?" Arya stopped struggling and considered their position, raking her eyes up his torso. She raised an eyebrow, giving him a toothy grin right back: like a wild wolf girl. Clearly, she had him right where she wanted him. 

"Perhaps," Arya's voice pitched higher than usual and was quiet: too quiet. "And I'm not a lady!" She jerked her arms apart with a strength he still couldn't believe she possessed, sending him crashing down on top her. Her thin arms locked around his neck: he was caught. 

"No," Gendry could admit defeat like a man, though his words muffled against her neck. "You're a little wolf." 

"Not so little," she was grinning, Gendry could tell even though he couldn't see her face. "It's my nameday." Surprised, he pulled back and she let him prop himself up on his elbows to gape down at the grinning girl beneath him. 

"Really?!" Gendry's reaction only made her grin even wider before her stare dipped lower to openly admire his bared flesh. He rolled his eyes at her reaction: what's the big deal about a man's chest? 

"Well," she trailed a feather-light touch down his neck and then over his shoulders. "It might have already passed - I don't know what exact day this is but I am ten-and-four this moon cycle." Arya's hands dipped down past his collarbone, tracing the curves and lines of his muscles. Gendry groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, knowing they were heading down a dangerous road and not caring nearly enough. 

"Happy nameday, Arry," he gritted through his teeth. Gendry sucked in a sharp breath when she lifted her mouth to place a chaste kiss above his heart. 

"Thank you, bull." Arya's voice was gentle and some deeper instinct told Gendry not to trust it. "Can I request a present?" He almost laughed out loud as the hair on the back of his neck rose in response to her terrifying sweetness. 

"I'll likely regret it but go ahead and ask." Gendry focused on her heavy-lidded eyes, smoldering with greedy hunger as they raked over his body. They were her most wolf-like quality, her big grey eyes. There was something wild and untamed about her: it made her look dangerous and beautiful at the same time. 

"Can we change places?" Arry's question made Gendry swallow hard and nod his head in agreement: not trusting his voice to be steady. As soon as he pushed his weight off the small bed, she scrambled up to kneel on the straw mattress and grasped his wrist to pull him towards her. "Lie down." He did as she bid, lacing his fingers behind his head, and smirking when she gasped. 

Instantly he regretted ever agreeing when she climbed over him and sat astride his legs, her robe gathered around her upper thighs. Arya leaned over him, melting him down with her fiery eyes and then recasting him with her light touch. She smoothed her palms over him without pattern or direction: teasing, caressing, and even scraping her nails against his chest. Her touch left burning trails over his skin as her eyes feasted on his body. 

Was there any man alive who could understand what it was like to be so easily manipulated by a highborn girl? 'Maiden, save me! I know I'm not the usual type that prays to you but I need your help. Grant me a maiden's chastity!' He closed his eyes, waiting for his prayer to be answered: nope, still hard as a rock. Gendry thought his heart might explode out of his ribs if she kept up her tormenting exploration. 

Her small hands trailed downwards, moving so slow he almost didn't notice, towards the laces of his breeches. He grasped her wrists just as the tips of her fingers found his laces. Gently, so she would not fight him: he pulled her down against his chest. Her ear rested above his hammering heart but he wasn't ashamed by how fast it pounded. Arya slid her soft hands up his arms to hold onto his shoulders and arched her waist against his aching harness. 

A moment of weakness made his hands slip under her robe to hold the sides of her thighs. His heart constricted at the little growl of pleasure she made, sending a wave of lust through his body. Arya's sharp teeth nipped his chest before she licked the tender skin, stopping Gendry's overworked heart dead before it roared back to life. His brain no longer had any control over his body: his grip tightened on her thighs as he drove his hips against her. 

She did it again, biting him and then tasting his skin, working her way up. Arya marked his collarbone with another nip and then moved up his neck. Finally, her lips hovered above his, her dark predatory eyes intently staring at his mouth. Time froze as he felt her hot breath panting against his face. Gendry almost lifted his head to claim the kiss he wanted since the first time he saw her pouting scowl. Torturously slow, keeping her gaze locked with his, she lowered her mouth- 

"Soup's on!" A booming voice called through the door. Gendry started, grabbing Arya by the shoulders and pushing her forward as he sat up. Her head snapped back from the force but instead of acting hurt, she began to laugh. Hearty laughter, which should never come out of a proper lady's throat, shook her body as she clung to his forearms. He sat motionless and dazed: they had been so close. 

"Coming!" Arry called to the Green Priest behind the door, hiccupping from being out of breath and wiping a tear from her eye. Her laugh subsided into broken chuckles as she disentangled herself from Gendry's frozen limbs. "Here," she tossed the short robe into his face, "get dressed, I'm starving." The lingering heat in her gaze made him think she was also still hungry for him: she's a wolf alright. 

Gendry and the priest had to take long strides to keep up with Arya's eager skipping. She excitedly mentioned all her favorite kinds of soups as they walked towards the large hall to eat their supper. He thought the wood building was impressive but didn't want to fuss about it when Arya hardly noticed. It was probably not that impressive compared to her father's castle. They both gobbled up their first bowls without taking a single breath. 

"I'll have another," she said just as Gendry also asked: 

"Could I have more?" They looked at each other, both holding out their bowls eagerly. The Green Priest chuckled softly and took their bowls to a kitchen area tucked in the corner of the first floor. Gendry didn't know how to tell Arya he didn't trust this 'preist' when they had worked so hard to get to this isle. 

"I have told Brother Lowell that you enjoyed his stew very much." The Green Priest smiled indulgently and handed the full bowls back to them. "Lady Stark," at the priest's words, Arya leaned forward, resting her forearm on the table and staring intently at the man. Gendry copied her position while the priest remained relaxed with a smile on his face: this man was too strange.

"You know my name," Arya leveled her glaring eyes at the amused priest, "yet I do not know yours." 

"I am called Brother Symon, Green Priest of the Isle of Faces," he told them, adopting a more serious expression that made him look much older. "I have been shown your difficult journey... you have suffered and lost much." The man's pleasant smile returned too easily. "If you wish, you may stay on the isle until the war ends, this is a safe place." 

"Thank you for your offer, but we cannot stay here." Arya paused to take a large bite of her stew, continuing to speak as she chewed the tender meat. "I need to find my family - they might still believe I am being held by the Lannisters." 

"I go where she goes," Gendry added, not sure how much he should say but needing Arya to know he'll see her all the way home. The conversation didn't need much input from him so he scraped at the bottom of his emptied bowl. The priest patted his long beard thoughtfully before nodding with his eyes closed. 

"I must insist you stay and rest for a time before continuing." Brother Symon's ever-changing expressions unnerved Gendry. He couldn't trust a man who wore his emotions so openly: the preist was either a fool or a good liar. "You are weary and underfed. Gain your strength and, if I may presume to tell a Lady of Winterfell, pray to the Old Gods. They will help you, my lady." 

"Thank you, Brother Symon - I think we could use the rest." Arya glanced at Gendry as she said that, as if she thought he needed rest. Nah, that couldn't be it: she'd likely want to continue feasting on him after having her fill of the food. "And more of this stew - I'm ready for another bowl, how about you, bull?" He was starting to know her a little too well: the hunger in her eyes was unmistakable. 

"Huh?" Gendry blinked at her questioning gaze before regaining his wits. Arry was reaching out her hand to take his bowl. "Oh, sure: please, thanks." Gendry couldn't miss the riled look Arya gave him. She swiped their bowls off the wood table and nearly ran to the kitchen. The priest only beamed his annoying knowing smile and stroked his beard. 

"The Old Gods can see you too, Gendry Waters," the man spoke quietly, smiling pleasantly all the while. Gendry just scowled at the strange man until he got up to leave. Finally, now he and Arry could talk about how fucking wrong this place is! She came back, somehow managing to get a third bowl of soup and balancing it on the other two: all full to the brim. Her brows narrowed in pain as she whimpered and blew air on the bowls. 

"Hot-hot-hot! Here," Arry whined as she walked up to Gendry, "help me." He reached out to take the top bowl and another from her hand. She dropped her bowl onto the table and stew splattered a bit as she shook her hands then blew on them. Gendry took her hands in his and checked for any actual damage but she was in too much of a hurry to keep eating. "This is not exactly what I expected," she choked a bit on her stew, "it's so - normal." 

"Oh yeah," he snorted and shook his head, "that bloody creepy priest knowing who you are: totally normal." Gendry stared at Arya in disbelief. "I bet you nearly shit yourself." She pulled the extra bowl in front of her and dumped it into the first until it almost overflowed. 

"Please," she rolled her eyes, taking a big slurping mouthful of her soup. "You're the one pissing your breeches over some old man calling me a 'wolf'." Arya scoffed, looking at him like he's an idiot. "He's a Green Priest, this is what they do." 

"He knows, Arry." His voice was low and tight as he leaned closer to Arya. "We can have a laugh about it: try to make it scare us less but he knows everything." Gendry wished he wasn't so bloody terrified. Afraid that they could be sold out, afraid to have his 'friendship' with Arya judged. Most of all, afraid of the priest's eerie ability to know things he shouldn't. 

"You don't have to trust him Gendry." Arya took his hand between hers and pressed his fingers: her eyes wide and pleading. "Trust me," the wolf went straight for his heart. 

"Always," he promised: a lie he'd grown too used to telling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'Old Gods and the New' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> It's late and I ate too much... Damn you, Netflix - you got me again.
> 
> Thanks to all for commenting, leaving kudos and bookmarking: it's helpful and inspiring to know people are enjoying what I'm putting out. <3


	9. Blood Blue Roses

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/requests/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178145819)

# Robb

"I have delivered your terms to the queen, Your Grace." Ser Alton Lannister was back in Robb's command tent, looking none too pleased to be there. Clearly, the young man had no good news to share or he would not be sweating so much in this damp cold air. Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton stood to the side, watching the exchange: the latter with a familiar bored expression.

"And what did she say?" Robb walked around the large table in his command tent to look Ser Alton Lannister in the eye. The man appeared nervous: usually that would be good but it made him feel uneasy.

"She admired your spirit, Your Grace." Ser Alton did not strike Robb as a liar, but neither did he seem very truthful. Were any Lannisters capable of honesty?

"And what then?" Robb read the hesitation written all over the Lannister man's dripping face.

"She, uh..." At least the knight managed not to piss himself: yet. Robb sighed at the man's need to dance around the truth, wishing more than anyone to leave this bloody tent for once.

"If every man were held accountable for the actions of every distant relative, Ser Alton, we'd all hang." Robb would never be the kind of man to hold another responsible for the wrongdoings of others. There was, however, a limit to his patience. Good thing Grey Wind left to hunt or his growling would soak the young man's breeches.

"She tore the paper in half, Your Grace." Alton nervously confessed queen regent Cersei's most grievous crime of tearing paper: how like a woman. What a 'just and reasonable' cause for taking her cousin's life, although good 'king' Joffrey might think so. Robb forced the hostile exhaustion out of his mind to focus on the task at hand: good leaders keep their tempers.

"You've acted with honor," he told the young knight honestly. "I thank you for it." Walking around the tent, Robb made sure to keep his eyes locked on the Lannister. He reached out, picked up a sealed parchment, and handed it to Ser Alton. "I'm sending you back to your queen to inform her than I will not be ignored. I request that King Joffrey and his mother peaceably treat with my personal envoy to negotiate peace terms."

"I will tell them, Your Grace." Alton never managed to raise his eyes higher than the center of Robb's chest.

"I don't want this war," he added bitterly, "I don't want that damned iron throne." Robb pointed at the missive he handed to Ser Alton. "I want evidence of my sisters' safety: letters from both of them telling me that they are not being mistreated." Turning to his bannerman, he gave his final order, "Lord Karstark, see that Ser Alton's pen is clean and give him a hot supper."

"Ser Alton's pen is occupied, Your Grace," Lord Rickard Karstark informed him. "The prisoners from the Yellow Fork."

"Too many prisoners." Lord Roose Bolton always had to say his piece, insisting that they execute the men instead of keeping them locked up. Robb ignored the gloomy man as usual, unwilling to be swayed to dishonor just to save space.

"Is there room for Ser Alton?" Robb directed the question to Lord Rickard. Surely, there remained a small space somewhere in the camp.

"Does he need to lie down?" Rickard's dry wit weakened Robb's already wavering tolerance: he needed to find his bed and sleep for at least three years.

"I can promise you a meal, Ser Alton," the young knight bobbed his head in response to Robb's words. He briefly considered putting Ser Alton in with the kingslayer then deemed the idea foolish. "But I'm afraid you'll have to find your own place to sleep. I want you gone from the camp as soon as you've finished eating." With a wave of his hand, Lord Karstark led Alton Lannister away.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace." Ser Alton turned to speak to Robb. "Might I be able to exchange a few words with my cousin, Ser Jaime Lannister? The Queen has requested that I see his condition personally."

"Let him see the kingslayer before he leaves: only for a few moments." Robb hoped a sign of good faith would help his request for evidence of his sister's safety. "Have your boy, Torrhen watch over them: that will be all." He dismissed the men as he left the command tent. A smile came automatically to his lips when he spotted Lady Talisa Maegyr approaching and the damnable weight seemed to drop from his shoulders.

"Your Grace." Lady Talisa greeted Robb and slid her eyes to Lord Bolton, as if hoping he would leave. "A minute of your time?" Robb nodded in dismissal at the scowling man, ignoring the lord's rolling eyes and soft disapproving snort. Talisa smiled shyly at him before looking down and wringing her hands nervously. "I've been treating your wounded men."

"And my enemies," Robb replied with mock chastisement before grinning at her. "As some of my bannermen are fond of mentioning."

"They're not my enemies." Talisa retorted somewhat more seriously than Robb hoped and he realized she was wanting to ask him something important.

"That's what I tell my bannermen," he told her softly. It was true: in fact, Robb probably defended Lady Talisa a bit too much to his men. No matter, he did not intend to hide his approval of her unwavering courage and selfless honor. If he had a hundred men with her noble heart, this war would already be won.

"I've already run through the supplies I brought with me," her words were rushed and slightly anxious. "Some are easily replaced: egg yolks, turpentine, oil of roses." She sighed in despair and Robb felt overwhelmed by the desire to aid her in any way he could. "But some are not. I need silk for stitching, I need fennel root for those with fever, willow bark."

"Mostly I need milk of the poppy. You saw what it was like," she shuddered, "to amputate a foot without any." Lady Talisa never needed to remind Robb of the day that boy lost his leg. He met her that day and it had changed him profoundly. "I assume there will be more loss of limb before this war is over." She sighed a heavy breath, a relieved sound: he guessed it meant she had agonized over asking for the king's help.

"If you need help finding these-"

"I know where to find them," she cut off his words. Lady Talisa's eyes grew wide, likely realizing she just disrespected a king. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't interrupt you." Most of the time, kingship was not everything people say it is. There is some power and respect, but mostly people fear and try to kill kings.

"Continue, my Lady," Robb nodded and smiled encouragingly at the lady to put her at ease.

"You're riding to the Crag to negotiate a surrender?" Lady Talisa continued to impress Robb: he did not expect his plan to force the Crag to surrender was common knowledge.

"Yes," he answered truthfully.

"The Crag will have a Maester and he will have what I need," she explained. Lady Talisa's voice was practical and polite but her dark eyes implored Robb for help.

"I expect he will." Robb contemplated taking the lady along with him: they could spend some time together and speak a bit more. She could advise him on how to better care for his men and he can see she gets her required supplies. More than that, her pleasant company was a welcome relief from the endless planning and war making.

"If I could write a list-"

"Come with me to the Crag," Robb stopped her request short. He cursed himself for demanding rather than asking her to accompany him when her expression turned from anxious to shocked.

"I don't think," Lady Talisa's hesitation only made him want her to agree even more. "That will be-"

"Let the Maester show you his stores," he cajoled with his most charming smile. "I want the wounded men to be treated well: all the wounded men." Her eyes lit up and he could read her mind, thinking of all the suffering men that she could save with her skills.

"Alright, Your Grace." Lady Talisa beamed at him, a rosy blush darkening her cheeks. "I will come with you."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/blue_rose/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=177979803)

# Sansa

She was running through the alley... running so fast to escape but dirty hands were grabbing, pulling her down. Sansa fought to close her eyes and tried to resist but they were too strong and too many. No one was coming to save her, she would die a horrible death, and not one person in Kings Landing would care. Maybe in death she could reunite with father and beg his forgiveness. Father would have come, swooping in heroically like a hero in a song.

"I'm not some buggering knight, little bird." The hound's immense weight crushed her body against the ground. No, that was not right, he would not hurt her... he rescued her. "You're dreaming, silly girl. Wake up." Sansa, ever so obedient, opened her eyes to the dim room as they adjusted to the hint of a sunrise creeping through the window. He even saved her from dreams and she had not yet thanked him for rescuing her during the riot.

Since that horrible day, overwhelming fear turned her chambers into a prison, unless Joff called her from it. She knew the 'king' had not ordered him yet the hound... no. Sandor Clegane risked his life to go back for her! He was her savior, an honest and true knight in less-than-shining armor. Except he is not a knight, a fact he never failed to remind her of. The man saved her all the same and it was her duty as a lady to thank him properly.

Mind made up, she rose from bed and put on slippers before sitting at the vanity. Lighting a candle to see her reflection, she tilted her cheek to observe an almost faded bruise from the riot. She picked up a brush and absentmindedly stroked through the ends of her hair, working upwards. Sansa decided to wear it in a northern style, having discerned that the hound... Clegane watched her more often when her hair was down.

Determined, she rose from the seat, crossing the room to open the wardrobe and inspected her dresses with a finger over her pursed lips. A dress would be harder to choose because Sansa was uncertain if the man even noticed dresses. He did comment on her hair and called her pretty, as his eyes occasionally slid down to her... blossoming figure. She blushed while pondering which dress made her look most womanly. 

Her eyes were drawn to the grey dress with a decorative collar, the added detail and wide neckline would attract his attention to her... chest. With a groan she inwardly prayed, 'Crone, grant me the maturity to stop blushing like a ninny over every petty thing. Warrior, bestow your bravery on me'. After a pause, she also sent a fervent prayer to the Old Gods, sometimes feeling unworthy of the northern gods for speaking against them so often.

Her decision made, she plucked the grey dress from the cupboard and laid it out over her rumpled sheets. Gathering up all of her underclothes, including a corset, she set them out as well. With naught left to do, she wandered the chamber while braiding her hair. Shae arrived before too long, looking surprised to see her lady already up and pacing the room.

"Good, we can begin early-" The handmaiden cut herself off. "Bad dreams, my lady?" Shae often showed concern, even if her behavior was far too familiar for a servant. Sansa shook her head in a weak denial, feeling grateful to be cared about. "So, you have still not made up your mind?"

"Not yet, I will make an early morning prayer in the godswood to clear my mind." Sansa gestured towards the garments on the mattress and Shae walked over, observing her lady's selection. "I thought it might help me come to a decision about what I really want." Her handmaiden seized the blue winter rose sash and held it up questioningly.

"This," Shae arched an eyebrow and smirked at her lady, "is what you pick to wear to the godswood?" 

"Why shouldn't I?" Sansa bristled at Shae's tone... or more accurately, at how perceptive the woman could be. She sighed and sat down on the bed, examining her hands distractedly in her lap. 

"Oh, do not be sad!" There was genuine concern in Shae's voice, there always was. "You will look very lovely, if you wear this."

"Shae," she longed for someone to trust and the honest woman reminded Sansa somewhat of Arya, brave and never caring what anyone said. "In truth, I hoped to look good to a man that I... expect to pass on the way."

"My lady, you pause before you lie - stop that." Shae bent into Sansa's averted gaze and gave her a warm smile. "It is common to want a man to notice you." The handmaiden patted her shoulder softly, reminding Sansa how much she missed physical affection. Her family regularly hugged and kissed each other but recently being touched usually hurt. "You could take a lover."

"Shae!" Sansa spun around and stared at the handmaiden's smiling face. "That's! That is... unspeakable!" Her words caused a vision to come unbidden to her thoughts, of dream-Sandor lying on top of her. Sansa closed her eyes trying to will the apparition away. "I was not considering that sort of meeting! I only seek to..." What did she want from him? "I want him to think I'm pretty," she mumbled, feeling embarrassed.

"He would have to be blind to not think you are the most beautiful girl in the seven kingdoms." Every time Shae used such liberal compliments, Sansa smiled and swayed her head modestly. The handmaiden placed a hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you love the king, you are being forced to marry him so it is not wrong to want another."

"I think my Septa would have disagreed." Sansa laughed, imagining a debate between the brash handmaiden and the proud Septa. Once proud, the sobering consideration invaded her mind and relaxed the smile from her face. Shae noticed, poking her lady's arm while grinning.

"What does an old maid know of men? It's unnatural," the handmaiden shook her headful of dark hair. Shae's ironic horrified tone made Sansa smile again, scandalized and enjoying every minute of it. "There is the sweet smile I like to see. Come, ready yourself, and show that smile to your man." Her man... could Sandor be 'her man'?

"Shae," Sansa hesitated, unsure how to phrase her question and mortified to even ask. "If I was to have a man... in my service, how could I avoid being caught?" The Red Keep teemed with spies and even Shae was possibly gaining her trust for some nefarious purpose. She supposed that if Shae betrayed her, it would not matter when Sansa was executed for plotting treason because she would be utterly alone. Death would be better.

"My lady, where I come from there is a saying which means: don't trust the animal that walks on two legs." Shae's normally light tone turned sharp and serious. "Someday, you will be queen and it will give you some power - if you have the right help. I will support you. Choose a man you can control."

"Don't worry," she responded too hurriedly, "I have no plans... I was only curious." Shae considered her lady thoughtfully for a moment before nodding and then helped her to ready herself. Once dressed, Sansa bid her handmaiden to help arrange her hair in the northern way. They enjoyed a comfortable silence as the task was promptly completed.

"Thank you, Shae." Sansa jumped up and dashed towards the door as soon as her hair was finished, throwing a grateful smile over her shoulder as she left the room. While hastening down the steps, she scolded herself that there was no urgency since she intended to wander the keep's halls. Rushing appears guilty, which she was in truth, though not exactly sure of what. Plotting and scheming, two related yet entirely different crimes.

Calm and quiet, she aimlessly meandered through the halls, making her way to the godswood. The sun was high in the sky by the time she reached her destination. Sansa kneeled to pray but her mind was consumed with coming up with a proper answer for Shae's apt question. What did she want? Yes, she wished most of all to go home yet... another desire held almost equal weight in her heart. Joffrey deserved justice and he needed to be stopped or he would destroy this kingdom.

Oh, what could she possibly do about that?! Sansa never had to be good at making decisions in Winterfell. Over the last few days, she gave a new answer to Shae, about how she planned to reunite with her family. Each morning she awoke feeling so angry, full of bile and righteous fury. 'Let them have her', her betrothed had said. That bastard... she craved vengeance! Her legs grew tired but she knelt until her toes went numb.

'Warrior, I have prayed to you more often during the last moon's cycle than in my entire life. Forgive me for my dismissal of your importance and for seeking your guidance only out of distress. I know you sent Sandor to save me, I know your hand guided his sword. Guide my heart now, so I may know what I must do'. Having made a show of being devout to any person watching, she stood stiffly to leave.

Head hung in disappointment that she could not find Sandor, her knees ached as she sluggishly returned to her chambers. Heavy footfalls, accompanied by an approaching shadow made her look up. He appeared like an answered prayer, scowling as he stalked past her without a glance. Surprised he let her pass unnoticed, Sansa called out to get his attention.

"I beg pardon, ser." She twisted her neck to follow his hulking form, her stomach fluttering when his footsteps paused. Sansa could not face him completely, fighting the mad urge to turn and flee in the opposite direction but she kept her gaze trained on his. He regarded her indifferently, his face the unreadable mask she continually saw in court. At least he did not seem angry... or drunk.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/gratitude/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178173148)

# Sandor

"I should have come to you after, to thank you for saving me." The little bird chirped in a quiet voice, still hoarse from screaming, making him forget his best intention to ignore the little fool. "You were so brave." She believed it was courageous to gut the peasant bastards who thought they could fuck her. If anyone besides the king would get to fuck her - it'd be him - not some lowly rat.

"Brave?" Sandor knew his mocking grin made his face stretch and twist in an ugly way but the girl held her stare firm. The little bird had grown far too comfortable with him, forgotten what he is. "A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats." Instead of being afraid, she narrowed her glare at him and stuck up her haughty chin. His fingers itched to pinch that chin - the hound bit the inside of his cheek - no touching, down boy.

"Does it give you joy to scare people?" The little bird faced him, staring icily down her nose at Sandor like he's a mutt. So, she remembered he's a dog, just forgot the hound could bite. Fuck this idiot girl. Who was she to him - why would he risk his neck to go chasing after her? Nobody and not a thing - just a pretty face and a set of teats, casting a spell of madness over him with her smiles.

"No, it gives me joy to kill people," he stepped towards her menacingly, her brave stare slipped before returning to his face. She frowned at him as if she were let down by his nastiness so the hound went for the killing blow. "Spare me, you can't tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man."

"It was his duty!" Her blue eyes burned angrily, the little bird grew talons after all. "He never liked it!" Stupid girl, what did she know of killing? At the riot he killed plenty, spilled quite a nice bit of blood, and he got fuck-all from it. The only thing he felt that day was sheer panic and that didn't sit well at all with the hound. She'd unmanned him!

"Is that what he told you?" The hound sneered down at the girl, gratified when her gaze faltered. "He lied - killing is the sweetest thing there is." Though he could admit to himself that if he ever had the little bird, she might be sweeter. He scoffed at that godsdamned foolish notion - he wasn't ever going to have her. Might be he didn't want her anymore, if she's going to change him into something weak and soft.

"Why are you always so hateful?" She still dared to question him? Why hadn't she flown back to her cage, away from the ugly mongrel barking at her? Sandor leveled a scornful glare at the girl that regularly sent grown men cowering.

"You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday," he growled and took a menacing step towards her. "When I'm all that stands between you and your beloved king." The little bird would never survive if she continued depending on others to save her. Fucking seven hells! Sandor needed to get away from this chit's big eyes and soft chirping - making mush of his brain!

"No you won't," she whispered curtly, red-faced and pouting prettily. He should be angry but felt only amused by her sudden temper. "What's the difference, if it's a dirty rat or a golden lion? You won't stand between anything... it is more likely he will ask you to hold me down. He doesn't deserve your loyalty!" The lady sounded furious so Sandor tried not to - he really did - before throwing his head back and laughing his arse off.

"You have protected me," she insisted, starting to sound all weepy. "Even by using your harshness to help me survive the cruelty of others." He attempted to hold back another bark of laughter with a snort. "I only have one thing left he can take from me," a single tear rolled down her cheek and Sandor restrained his hand from wiping it away. "Now I understand better what that means."

"It's better to see what's coming," he said gruffly. Sandor didn't want this teary-eyed girl gaping at him like a terrified fish any longer! The hound didn't know - nor did he want to - how to comfort a weeping maiden! Growling, he stalked away, leaving her alone with her shiny tears and soft chirping. He didn't need her gratitude - he needed Lady Sansa Stark to stay the fuck away from him.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/stump/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178092006)

# Gendry

The day was peaceful as he lounged on the cut-down trunk of a large weirwood with his wolfgirl's head resting on his thigh. She fell asleep some time ago, still talking his ear off about the 'pact' being made here long ago. Gendry lazily stroked Arya's hair as he leaned back on his hand to look up at the canopy of weirwood trees rising above them. Like everything else on the isle: pretty and weird as all seven hells.

This patch of forest sat directly behind the large hall where the Green Priests ate their meals and had their meetings. To Gendry, nothing that happened on this isle even remotely looked like anything religious. Instead, the people who lived here were more interested in living in peace with nature than worshiping their gods. Or mayhaps that was how they worshiped: honestly, he didn't care much either way. 

'Always'. The whispered voice surprised Gendry out of his bored thoughts but when he looked around nobody was there. The sigh of the wind rustled the leaves of the heart trees and he suddenly felt like the eyes of the carved faces were really staring at him. He shook his head to clear the foolishness: he's no child to be afraid of his own daydreaming. Maybe it was guilt eating at him, about Arya.

Since they arrived on the Isle, she comes into his room every night and falls asleep in his arms. Oddly or mercifully, she never pushed for more and Gendry was thankful for that at least. Falling asleep and waking up to his wolfgirl was better than he could've ever imagined, it was best not ruining it by allowing things go any further. He wished it was selfless, that he resisted taking liberties to preserve Arya's honor and not steal her chance for a good marriage with a high lord.

Nope, it was all for him: so it would be easier to let her go later. He felt like a true bastard for lying to her but it seemed best to let her think they will find a way to be together. After she gets home, Gendry could make his way up to the wall. All the reasons he didn't want to go up there in the first place suddenly seemed a small price to pay. Nobody would hunt for him up on the wall: not that he knew why anyone would hunt him in the first place.

On the wall, there'd be no women: Gendry would never have to feel like this again. Never to feel heartbreak or loneliness nor the feeling of being cared for and needed by someone. He could live without that, as he had his whole life before he met Arya. They couldn't do anything on their own and he had nothing to offer her. All he could do for her was take her back to her family and bloody well get out of her life.

As for the cold: it would make him think of Arya every night. At first, missing her would hurt but he supposed it might be nice after a while to be reminded. Gendry would never forget how happy it made him to be close to her, this comfortable ease he only ever felt with her. In that way, he could keep her forever. In the meanwhile, this was enough: petting her hair as she slept and letting her think they would never part. 

"Gendry?" Arya's sleepy voice pulled him from his worrying. The breeze pushed the leaves aside, flashing sunlight over her face. Her eyes squeezed shut and she scrunched up her nose in annoyance. Gendry lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the blinking beams of light. 

"Hmm?" Gendry didn't feel much like talking and maybe if he kept quiet she would sleep a bit longer. 

"Why don't you kiss me?" Arya's face was covered by his hand, but he could hear annoyance and disappointment in her voice. "You know I want to and I know you want it too - or at least I think you do." She turned her head towards him and grabbed his hand to move it so she could see his face. Gendry smiled down at her narrowed eyes and the little wrinkle between her eyebrows. Why was her anger so pretty?

"I do want to," small truths were always easy to admit when hiding something big. Arya already knew he wanted to kiss her, why lie about it? 

"Do we have to play this game every time?" Arry huffed and looked away from him with a frown, tossing his hand away before crossing her arms over her chest. "I should just attack you and steal a kiss," she grumbled. 

"That wouldn't be very ladylike of you," he teased, brushing his fingertips across the hair strewn over her forehead. She let him: if Arya was mad, he might not get those fingers back. 

"Is that it?" Arry's voice never wavered but Gendry spent enough time with her to tell the difference between her real anger and her hurt 'anger'. "Because I'm a lady?" Sometimes Arya's naivety was too much, it made him really wonder how her parents raised her. Usually she acted so clever, knowing far more about the world than he could ever hope to know. Yet, somehow, she was convinced they could stay together. And what: he'd marry a highborn?

"A bit," he lied, "mostly it's because you're a girl." The opposite was actually true but it was definitely clear that she was too young: head full of childish dreams. 

"Don't you like girls?" Arya scoffed and faced him to raise a mocking eyebrow. She had this way of pushing her upper lip into a scowl and her lower lip into a smirk and still managed to look almost sweet. 

"Of course I like girls," he laughed as he tweaked her nose and Arya slapped his hand away. "I mean: you're so young. Not even flowered yet and I've already let things happen-" She burst into a fit laughter, leaving Gendry stunned and confused until she was able to get herself under control. Holding her stomach and still giggling, she spoke through breathless chuckles. 

"I 'flowered' long ago!" Arya grinned at him: he probably looked like a dumbfounded idiot. "Two years now, I think," she looked off into the sky, as if trying to remember when a big toothy smile appeared on her face. "Mother made me swear to never let Sansa find out," she snickered evilly. "She'd be heartbroken that I bled at ten-and-one and she still hadn't by ten-and-five." 

"Oh," was all he could say as his face burned with shame.

"Being flowered does not make someone a woman," she told him like he was stupid. "I didn't even have teats then." Arya uncrossed her arms and looked down at her own chest. His traitorous eyes followed her gaze without a fight: she noticed. "Do you want to see me like I saw you?" Gendry's eyes snapped back to her face and gods save him: she was blushing. 

"That's not a good idea," he croaked. Gendry looked away and cleared his throat, pumping a fist against his chest. She gave a frustrated groan then sat up and spun around to face him, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the huge stump. 

"Bull," she put a hand under his chin and tilted it roughly to make him look her straight in the eye. "I am ten-and-four - I am flowered - if I had never left home," she shuddered, "I would likely be married within the year." He tried not to cringe at the thought of Arya being wed to somebody else. "I'm not a child!" She whined like a child. 

"In some ways I think you're older than me," he breathed a sigh. She moved her hand to lace her fingers through his and Gendry looked down to their twined fingers. His were hard and dark: her soft, pale fingers only stressed the difference between them. "Then you say things like that and I know you're too young. I don't just want to kiss you, Arry. You would know that if you weren't a child still." 

"Then you want my 'maiden's gift'?" Arry shrugged her shoulders casually, as if she didn't just ask if he wanted to fuck her. "Fine, I was going to give it to you anyway." Gendry tore his hand out of hers, jumping up off the stump to pace between the heart trees. 

"See?!" He threw his hands up and faced her confused expression. "That, right there, is what I'm talking about: you have no idea what that means!" 

"Of course I do!" Arya shouted angrily as she jumped to her feet, standing on the stump to glare down at him. "I've seen animals mating, I get the general idea." She put her hands on her hips and judged him with an unimpressed withering look. "Besides, I didn't ask you to mate with me, I asked you to kiss me. You can kiss me without-" 

"Fine!" Gendry marched across the distance between them, jumping up onto the stump and catching her face between his hands. He only saw her stunned expression for an instant before pressing his lips down hard onto hers. This was just another thing he didn't know how to do and was probably doing it all wrong. At least she wouldn't know if he was. Gods, why did he do this? It's a mistake.

Kissing Arya was the best mistake Gendry ever made. Her arms uncrossed from her chest and her lips yielded softly under his as she kissed him back. The wind suddenly flew around them, whipping his face with her hair and swirling dry weirwood leaves around them. The leaves rustled loudly but his ears could barely hear past her soft sigh as she grabbed two fistfuls of his tunic. Gendry may have started the kiss but Arya took over, like she does with everything. 

She lifted up on her tiptoes to push her mouth against his more insistently, moving her lips over his, and nipping with her teeth. Arry attacked his mouth with the same ferocity she lived her life, not caring a wit if she was doing it properly. Moving even closer, she stepped up onto the toes of his boots and wrapped her arms around him. Wind rustled and moaned through the trees, competing with their own panting gasps.

Gendry's ears rushed with the near-deafening roar of his pounding pulse. He didn't even realize he moaned until Arya sneaked the tip of her tongue through his parted lips to touch his. The contact lasted no more than an instant but it shot a rush of desire straight through him. Unfortunately, the familiar longing reminded him they should stop before he forgot why he shouldn't. 

"There," he lifted his head away and she tried to follow. "I kissed you." Gendry pushed her away so she would take a step back, opening her dazed eyes wide to gape at him. "Now com'on," he let her go, turned, and bounded off the stump to head towards the lodge. "Brother Symon asked us to meet him in his room-" A thump behind him made him spin around to see Arya kneeling. 

"Is it," she lifted a hand to trace her lips before turning a dazed look at him. "Is it always like that?" Arya's voice was full of breathless wonder as she tilted her head to the side, waiting for his answer. He sighed and walked back to give her a hand, helping her up while keeping his eyes down. 

"I dunno, milady." Gendry shrugged, as if what just happened between them wasn't like being struck by lightning, drowned in a storm, and buried alive: but in a good way. Was anything ever going to make sense again after this? Arya peered into his eyes, apparently seeing something she liked, and gave him a smug smile. Hopping down off the stump, she swaggered ahead without him. Bloody hells: yeah, that kiss was a mistake.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/wolfsbane_weasel/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178013089)

# Arya

He kissed her! It was - indescribable, amazing, breathtaking, and pure - magic. Arya felt like she was floating on air and did not mind the sulking bull lumbering behind her. Gendry was simply brooding since she had irked him into kissing her but she could tell he liked it just as much as she did. The way he looked at her seemed different now, as if she wasn't just a girl or a lady - like she was his.

Brother Symon happened to live right next door to the room she had been given - at first this annoyed Arya. She assumed the adults would all tell her it was inappropriate for a young lady to sneak into a man's room to sleep. Everyone must have noticed but no one ever said a thing to her and it seemed they left Gendry alone too. It was for the best as no one was going to convince her to stop.

Arya knocked on the door, feeling Gendry's presence approaching behind her right side. Brother Symon answered before her hand could fall for a second time, as if he was expecting them at that precise moment. The Green Priest opened the door wide as his welcoming smile and held out his arm to invite them inside his humble room. 

"I trust the Old Gods spoke to you as you strolled through their woods." The priest wore his most pleasant smile but something about the way he watched her seemed like he could see straight to her heart. 

"Uh, sure." Arya quickly entered the small room - it felt overcrowded with three people. "What did you want to talk to us about, Brother?" 

"Of course, my lady, have a seat." Brother Symon indicated to two small stools next to his bed as he sat down. They scuttled to the seats - Arya fitting on hers just right as Gendry dwarfed his. "Ah, there you are, little kit!" The priest leaned down towards the floor and held out his hand to - bloody hells!!! 

"What is that?!" Arya yelled - it might have been a shriek - and jumped up onto her stool. The furry little creature chittered as it slunk up the Green Priest's arm and snaked itself around his shoulders. It was disgusting! 

"This is an isle weasel," the man explained, "they are only found here and never grow any larger than this." He picked up the small beastie and held it out closer so Arya could see. Feeling a bit ashamed of her overreaction, she huffed out a breath and hopped down to sit on the stool again. "Don't let his size fool you... this little fellow can bring down a full-grown hare without any problem." Then he noticed Gendry's rapt interest. "Put your hand out." 

"Here, little fella," Gendry called the furry thing as if it was a sweet little puppy. It ran down Brother Symon's arm and leapt onto the bull's. 

"He's fast," Gendry laughed as he cradled the animal in his arms like a baby. "Let me have a look at you," he cooed. "Gods, he's so little and sweet: he looks like you, Arya!" She could tell he truly meant it by his enamored smile - he was like a new mother. 

"I do not look like that - that rat," Arya snapped indignantly. "You stupid bull!" Gendry seemed immune to her insults as he was completely wrapped around the tiny fuzz-ball and imitating its chattering sounds. Ugh! Was she - really - jealous of a bloody weasel?! 

"Ah," he sighed and rolled his eyes at her - likely murderous - expression. "Arry, look at him." Gendry held out the small patchy colored weasel to show her. "Look at his big dark eyes, he looks exactly like you." Arya sneered at the thing and turned her head away. "Is 'kit' its name?" The bull could barely contain his curiosity and it was godsdamned disgusting. 

"No, 'kit' is what weasel pups are called," the priest explained with an equally moony beam on his face. Were these truly 'men'? "I'm afraid this one does not have a name, Brother Albyon found he and his littermates abandoned several moon cycles back. This one was the only kit that survived without its mother. Then Brother Albyon was called to join the Old Gods and the little kit here has been slow to take to anyone else." 

"He needs a proper name then." Gendry's mind was made up - Arya knew that tone well. "What kind of name would you like, little fella?" He held the kit under its arms and peered into its beady little eyes. "Hmm, let's see. How about 'Wesel'?" 

"That's original," she snorted. Arya in fact prided herself on coming up with pet names. "How about Dagger, or Reaper, or Bloodbane the Consumer?" Gendry raised a dubious eyebrow at her and shook his head in flat denial. "Fine," she huffed, grumbling under her breath. "Those were all good names. Why is its coat all patchy like that?" She briefly considered suggesting naming it 'Patches' for the brindle coloring of its fur. 

"His red coat will fade until the first snows and then it will turn fully white." The brother answered Arya's question before turning to observe the kit nuzzling into the bull's neck. "He seems to like you quite a bit, young Gendry." 

"How about," Gendry still seemed determined to give his new friend a name. "Squeak, Snowflake, Cloud, Flour?" 

"Flower?" Arya looked at the rodent-like animal and wondered how it could possibly resemble a flower. "No," he shook his head, "like: for bread?" Gendry laughed and rubbed a hand against the back of his head. "No, I know, that's stupid." 

"That sounds like something Hot Pie would suggest," she teased. 

"Hey now, I already said it was stupid: you don't have to rub it in." He chuckled as the kit started climbing on top of his head. "This is harder than I thought it would be. I should just call him Arry, since it's not really your name and he does look like you." Gendry was obviously trying to contain his laughter so he would not shake the kit off his head. "And he acts like you too!" 

"I don't think you'll like it when he bites you," she retorted - annoyed at the repeated comparison between herself and that stupid weasel. Gendry whirled his shocked face in her direction and Brother Symon had to launch out of his seat to catch the kit as it spun off. The bull gaped at her as she glared at him until the Green Priest cleared his throat. 

"Well," the man hesitated, looking between them both as if he had something to say. Arya raised a challenging eyebrow at the man - daring him to comment on her outburst. "The hour has grown late... we can speak more at breakfast. Goodnight to you both." As the priest ushered them out of the room, the kit jumped from his hold and onto Gendry's shoulder with a squeak. 

"Goodnight, Brother Symon," she sang sweetly to the man, glad he did not demand too much time. Seven hells! Now she had this troublesome creature to deal with - and he was in love with a weasel. "I've got it!" Arya reached out and grabbed Gendry's arm. "How about 'Wolfsbane'? It's a type of flower."

"I like it! Well done, Arry." Gendry gave a broad grin as he ruffled her hair - as if she wanted to be petted after that weasel. "Wolfsbane it is." 

"He's not sleeping with us," she told him as she opened the door to her room to bathe and dress for bed. Arya did not wait for him to argue - she will always win against him anyway, just like earlier when she goaded him into kissing her. 

"It's my bed," he called after her. Silly bull, doesn't Gendry realize yet that he belongs to her? That means his bed is really her bed.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/chained/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178064345)

# Jaime

Just when he could not take one more moment of tedium: a chance fell from the heavens in the form of a simple-minded lad. Supposedly, the boy was a cousin of his, but that made no difference. Jaime would not stay in this pen, chained like an animal, wallowing in mud and self-pity: for one more gods forsaken moment.

"Who did you say your mother was again?" He cocked an eyebrow at this 'Alton Lannister' who came for a visit, not sensing any particular familial attachment to the boy. The guard circled the stockade where Jaime was chained: perhaps not for long.

"Cynda Lannister," the young man answered but the name did not ring any bells.

"Is she the fat one?" Jaime had no time for tiptoeing: he needed to discern how important this boy was to his family.

"Well," the boy winced, "perhaps she's gotten a little larger than she-"

"No-no," Jaime interrupted Alton's blathering drivel about his mother. "There's only one fat Lannister. If she was your mother, you'd know it." The man would also know that pissing off the fat Lannister was a bit mistake. He ducked his head to smile to himself: this boy was of no significance.

"Make it quick, Lannister." The guard snarled at Alton, who visibly gulped as he nodded. "King Robb wants you gone." Jaime options remained limited with the guard staring at them both and refusing to give them any more time than necessary. He had to be quick, which would be difficult given he'd been chained on his ass in mud for months.

"The Queen asked me to check your condition," Alton told him and Jaime's heart constricted at the mere mention of Cersei. "How are you being treated?"

"I'm not well-suited for imprisonment," he laughed bitterly before grinning up at the boy. "Shocking, I know: some men are." Jaime raised his voice so the guard could hear. "Ned Stark: I imagine he made an excellent prisoner right up until the end." He lowered his head and his voice while pulling his manacled wrists apart painfully. "But me, though: my life has left me uniquely unfit for constraint."

"Have you thought about...?" Alton had moved in closer to catch Jaime's mumbled bellyaching, nearly within arm's reach. The boy spoke quietly, obviously asking if he ever thought of escape.

"Of course," Jaime kept his voice at a murmur and Alton drew even closer. "Every day."

"And?" Poor Alton, he seemed a good lad but so very stupid. Moreover, that guard: what the hells was he doing letting the boy get this close? Never underestimate your enemies.

"Good prisoners breed good jailers, apparently," Jamie japed ironically. Usually, he was sarcastic but irony was more fitting of the moment. "The Starks are very careful." He waved the boy even closer as the guard picked his fingernails with his knife. "But there is a way, I think. It wasn't possible until now."

"What is it?" Alton's eyes were wide like a frightened doe: this would be too easy.

"It's actually quite simple." Jaime whispered to Alton, only a breath's distance from him.

"Well, let me help you." Alton was so eager to help a man he never met despite the great risk to himself: poor fool.

"You'll only have to do one thing," he told his young cousin.

"Tell me," Alton nodded eagerly. Jamie might experience some guilt regarding that later, after he returned to Cersei.

"You'll have to die." Jaime head-butted Alton and wrestled him to the ground, but not before the boy screamed in terror, drawing the guard's attention.

"FUCK!" The guard roared as he scrambled to wrench open the pen's door. Jaime heard the crunch of bone breaking as he bashed his manacled hands against Alton's arms: trying to cover his head. The boy was limp and lifeless before the guard rushed the cell, his sword drawn. The fool left the pen's door wide open and Jaime made a dash for the guard's keys but the man was too fast. They struggled in the close quarters, both grunting from the effort.

Somehow, he managed to knock the guard's sword from his hand to bring the manacles across his jaw. The man fell to his knees and Jaime quickly wrapped his chain around his opponent's neck to strangle him. The guard choked and gurgled, nearly dead, yet Jaime underestimated the poor boy he thought already dead. The last thing he saw was the guard's sword swinging at his face, held by Alton Lannister's bloodied hands.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/guarding/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178095278)

# Brienne

In the aftermath of the kingslayer's foiled escape, the entire camp was in an uproar. Most of these fools wanted to hang Jaime Lannister for his attempt on the Karstark lad's life. Though she did not necessarily disagree that the man deserved death: vengeance is never more important than the good of the realm! Even she gave up her duty to bring Stannis Baratheon to justice so that she might serve a living king. The Young Wolf had better return soon to regain control of his men.

"Your son returns at dawn, My Lady?" Brienne was worried, observing the rising tension as they walked through the camp. Without King Robb, it was left to Lady Catelyn to keep the Karstarks in line until he got back. Lord Rickard Karstark was pitching a fit because his son almost died when he should be thanking the old gods and the new that his son was alive. The kingslayer remained the north's prisoner and that is the important thing.

"So they say," the lady murmured, distracted by the arguing men they passed on their way to Ser Jaime Lannister's pen. Possibly, she was upset by Lord Karstark's earlier claim that King Robb went to the Crag with a foreign 'bitch'. Why men felt they needed a special word, to remind women of their secondary place, was beyond Brienne's ken.

"The kingslayer won't last the night," she warned Lady Catelyn. "The more they drink, the angrier they'll get." Men, especially warrior men, become animals when they drink. "And when the Karstarks draw their swords: who wants to die defending a Lannister?" Brienne hoped her prediction was overly cautious but she had learned from a lifetime of fighting to be always vigilant.

"Come," Lady Catelyn Stark's voice was hard and determined as her spine straightened like a steel rod had grown in place. The lady waved for Brienne to follow her as she headed to the stockades. "I need to be alone with him," she told the guard watching the lion's cage.

"My Lady, our orders-" The guard started to protest but Lady Stark cut him off with a sharp look.

"Your orders," her words were even sharper: a woman's kind of strength. "Which I just gave you... are to leave me alone with him." Lady Catelyn's tone suggested she would brook no argument, which the guard realized. He nodded in acceptance and left the two women alone. Lady Catelyn entered Jaime Lannister's cell and stared down at the filthy thing that probably used to be a man at some point.

"Come to say goodbye, Lady Stark?" A ragged but arrogant voice sounded from the dirty man on the ground. "I believe it's my last night in this world." The kingslayer was as arrogant as all the tales said he was and then some, he looked past Lady Catelyn to run his eyes over Brienne. "Is that a woman?" Her spine stiffened in response to that familiar biting question and she rested a hand on her sword's hilt.

"Do you hear them out there?" Lady Catelyn completely disregarded the kingslayer's insulting question. "They want your head," she chastised seriously. In the near distance, Brienne could still overhear the men calling for the Lannister's head.

"Well," he let out a loud sigh and smirked at the lady. "Old Lord Karstark doesn't seem to like me." Brienne held back a snort of laughter: this man's affable arrogance made him almost roguishly charming. Until one remembered he was a child-pushing, kinslaying, reprehensible pig. Other than that, he seemed likable enough.

"You attempted to strangle his son to death with your chains," the lady explained to the daft man as if he was a small boy. Lady Catelyn held out her hands, as if she was admitting defeat against this incorrigible man-child.

"Oh, oh!" The kingslayer shifted on the ground so he could look up at Lady Stark more easily: obviously, he was in much more pain than he let on. "Was he the one on guard duty?" He let out another one of his breathlessly long sighs and shrugged his shoulders. "He was in my way," he stated nonchalantly. "Any knight would have done the same." Brienne did not hold back her derisive snort at those words.

"You are no Knight," Lady Catelyn spoke icy and low, her words laced with spite. "You have forsaken every vow you ever took." The individual things that Brienne overheard regarding the kingslayer never damned his character on their own. Excepting the instance when he tried to kill a child. Altogether, though, the rumors painted a clear picture: Jaime Lannister is not a good man. That was all Brienne needed to understand about him.

"So many vows," he mocked. "They make you swear and swear: defend the king, obey the king, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak." The kingslayer laughed without humor before glaring at Lady Catelyn. "But what if your father despises the king? What if the king massacres the innocent? It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or another."

"Where did you find this beast?" Jaime turned his attention back on Brienne, deflecting attention from himself. If only she got a stag, every time she was called 'beast'. Lady Catelyn's patience was wearing thin: she took a step towards the disheveled prisoner and stood proud. Brienne wished to witness the cold look her lady was giving the kingslayer but a guard must always stand behind their charge.

"She is a truer Knight than you will ever be, kingslayer," Lady Stark's fists balled at her sides. Brienne was touched by Lady Catelyn's words, even if spoken in anger. The kingslayer was a fool to ignore the lady's sound advice: she was trying to save his life!

"Kingslayer?" The man laughed at his unfavorable title. "What a king he was." Jaime lifted his manacled hands up, as if holding an imaginary cup. "Here's to Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the realm. And to the sword I shoved in his back!" He seemed quite proud of the fact he slew the king he swore to protect.

"You are a man without honor." Lady Catelyn's insult was biting but Brienne could not help being disappointed by it. Men have no honor. At least, Brienne had yet to meet any, with the possible exception of her own father. Even Lady Catelyn's own son is said to be disloyal to his queen: all men are faithless selfish creatures. Amidst all the gossip, the king still keeps his young wife with him in camp. This is no place for a well-bred young lady used to living in a castle.

"Do you know I've never been with any woman but Cersei?" The kingslayer abruptly admitted the rumors about his relationship with his sister were true! "So in my own way, I have more honor than poor old dead Ned. What was the name of that bastard son he fathered?" Jaime's mocking took on a deadly cruel tone: it was low of him to mock the lady's pain. Brienne only recently learned of Eddard Stark's illegitimate child.

"Brienne," Lady Catelyn's voice was tight as she called for her. Brienne approached her lady's side, briefly taking her eyes off the kingslayer. Looking down, she saw the lady's pained and furious expression.

"No, that wasn't it," the brute continued to spew his hateful bile. Brienne had to restrain herself from kicking him in the balls. "Snow, a bastard from the North. Now, when: when good old Ned came home with some whore's baby, did you pretend to love it?" Lady Catelyn let out a soft strangled cry but she did not move otherwise, only stared down with growing horror at the kingslayer's words.

"No," his voice was cloying and almost gleeful in his ability to cut straight through a good woman's heart. "You're not very good at pretending: you're an honest woman. You hated that boy, didn't you? How could you not hate him? The walking, talking reminder that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark fucked another woman."

"Your sword," Lady Stark coughed out the order and Brienne was almost tempted to hand over her blade. Years of strategic planning saved Brienne from giving into her anger. It dawned on her that this is the kingslayer's only weapon: his tongue. Well, she knew at least one person who has had every jape in the book thrown at her.

"Please, My Lady," Brienne spoke softly and kept her eyes averted with an appropriate level of shame for speaking out of turn. "I will guard over him and make sure he stays right where he is." She looked over Lady Catelyn's softened expression, turning away from the animal humiliating her. "Go and rest, it has been a trying day for you." Her lady nodded dejectedly, her shoulders drooped.

"Thank you, Brienne." Lady Catelyn refused to look back at Jaime before leaving the pen and Brienne followed her lady out. She swiftly closed the door before any more words were loosed from that man's poisonous tongue. As she turned around to take a comfortable stance to stand guard, a low whistle sounded behind her.

"Gods, you're a big one," he mocked. "I bet not many men are clamoring to get under your armor. I bet that gets so very lonesome." Jaime only said what Brienne had been hearing since the first day she put armor on, it was not going to distract her now. "Or maybe you are getting under her ladyship's skirts yourself? Is that it? Is widowhood lonely for poor Lady Stark?" Unable to stop herself, she opened the pen and took two steps inside, leaving the cage door wide open.

She crouched down to his level and watched him: only staring and not saying a word. Jaime stared back at first with a gleeful sneer but as the moments passed it slipped into a confused frown. Her eyes wandered over the kingslayer, observing every aspect of his appearance while wondering what his life was like before this.

"I admit, kingslayer," she met his eyes again, "that you are handsome: even covered in your own filth you are a fine-looking man." His brows narrowed in suspicion. "Even a beast like me might be tempted by you if you had even a shred of honor." Jaime rolled his eyes but it was then that Brienne recognized she had him. She crept a half-shuffle closer, holding back a smile when she noticed him measuring the distance between them.

"You push children out of windows," she let all of her true horror at the act fill her voice. "You tried to kill your own younger kin for a chance to escape. You care for nothing and no one beyond your own selfish desires. If you lie to yourself otherwise then you are an even bigger fool than you appear." With each harsh accusation, the fury in the kingslayer's eyes burned more brightly. "You disgust me."

"Be careful wench," the words gritted between his perfect white teeth.

"Have anything more to say?" Brienne leaned forward slightly, a silent invitation. Snap! He took the bait, lunging at her to the full extent of his chain: just as she anticipated. His manacled hands stopped a hair's width from her face as his eyes filled with furious disappointment. Once again, a man underestimated her because he did not consider that she correctly gauged the length of the chain. She leapt to her feet and brought her knee across his face, knocking him down into the dirt.

"Good," she stood over his prone form, a little too satisfied by her self-indulgent actions. "Then let's keep things civil between us and it will make both our lives much easier." Brienne walked back outside the pen to stand watch and thankfully, Jaime decided to keep his mouth shut for once. The man simply infuriated her: because he was so blessed by the gods, with good looks and familial wealth, yet was ungrateful.

She tried to clear her mind of all the kingslayer had said, yet one thing stuck with her. Jaime claimed he only ever loved one woman, his sister. He denied ever betraying her carnally, which seemed like an unreasonable lie. Except for the honest pain in his voice when he spoke of her. Not one person ever spoke of Brienne like that: no man ever risked the ridicule of loving such a beastly woman.

Yet, the kingslayer and his sister defied all social boundaries to love each other: if that was truly the case. She had to admit it was terribly romantic, causing her to wonder how she would act if she fell in love with someone she could never be with openly. From time to time women approached her, possibly assuming that because Brienne looked like a man, she must share their appetites.

She presumed they wanted passion without consequence. Yet, what if one of those women had true feelings for Brienne? Her few 'suitors' had all been sent off quite shortly, conceivably some had even been hurt by her dismissal. Quietly tisking at her own odd thoughts, she shook her head and focused on keeping watch. The kingslayer was cunning, but he was still just a man: that made him less clever than her.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/follow/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178096718)

# Sansa

Her eyes could not tear away from the dark red stain on her sheets. She has become a woman and never felt more like a terrified little girl. There was so much blood! And it was dark and sticky... her body ached all over. How could she ever have prayed for this to happen? Sansa knew what would come next and the very thought made bile rise in her throat. Now that she received her flowering, she was old enough to be wed and bear the king's heirs. 

Joff would order his men to hold her down, just like those dirty peasants during the riot, and he would... She could not bear that! Then he would do it again and again until she had his child within her. Sansa gagged, nearly losing her stomach on the stained mattress. Her precious maidenhead would be stolen by someone unworthy of being her husband and family. That invaluable gift was meant to be for a man who would protect and cherish her.

Family, duty, honor... she always did take after the Tully side and firmly believed that family should come first. Joffrey is the enemy of her House and would never be Sansa's family nor worthy of mixing his lineage with hers. The man she married should be the sort of man her father would approve of. No, father is gone and his approval no longer mattered. Her children should be sired by a man strong enough to keep them safe.

"My lady," Shae spoke softly but Sansa nearly swooned from fright!

"Shae..." She glanced away from her handmaiden down to the round stain in the center of the mattress. "I can't marry him yet, I haven't made up my mind! I can't-!" Shae quickly darted forward to cover her lady's hysterics with one hand.

"Shh, hush and listen to me." The woman spoke so softly that Sansa felt immediately calmed. "We are the only ones who know of this, only the proof needs to go." She lowered her hand and stepped away to the other side of the bed, taking hold of the soiled bedding. "We will turn it over for now, and then burn the sheets with your nightgown. Help me to lift it."

Sansa dashed forwards to grab ahold of the bed, heaving it off the frame in unison with her handmaiden. Her movements froze as she heard the door swing open. Shae should have barred it! The thought of anyone discovering her first moonblood filled her with an overwhelming panic. They would see her with a handmaiden frozen in a fit of lunacy and an act of treason. Her heart dropped into her stomach when he strode inside the chamber... Sandor Clegane.

They let the mattress slump on the bedframe and she bowed away from his impassive stare to sit down of her ruined bed. She wished anyone but this man caught them trying to erase the evidence of her becoming a woman. Hopeless tears tracked down her face, barely aware of him bidding Shae to clean her up. He left so she could make herself presentable and nothing compelled her to watch him leave.

She knew Sandor waited outside to take her to the queen while Shae cared for, cleaned, and comforted Sansa. 'Mother', she prayed, 'I am grateful to you for sending me at least one friend'. Of course, she could not blame the handmaiden for not barring the door because it all happened so fast. She yearned to express her appreciation and ask for Shae's advice but her voice was lost along with her heart... and all hope.

On no occasion had she explicitly prayed to never receive her moonblood while the opposite had been true for years. Once it had been a sore topic, having her fourteenth and then fifteenth namedays pass by with no hint of her flowering. She felt lacking, blaming herself for not being able to marry Joffrey right away... when she still 'loved' him. Sansa now believed she might never love anyone but her own family.

Family... She would now be expected to bear Joffrey's children, blonde princes and princesses. Would they be monsters like him? Before this morning, Sansa certainly feared the pain and abuse Joffrey would inflict on their wedding night and that fear fueled her rash actions. The thought of bearing his children chilled her northern bones despite the warm water and Shae's soothing words. She missed all the woman said, her attention was distracted by an epiphany. 

Sansa's heart stilled, the cold numbness in her bones collected in her chest and froze her heart solid. Everything was so clear now... the time for childish innocence is truly over. Never, she vowed to herself. Never would she allow her body to be used by a disgusting inbred bastard to sire his spawn! She rose and leapt from the tub with abnormal ferociousness and Shae had to rush to remind her lady to use a cloth between her legs.

As if she could forget. Sansa created a minor frenzy by insisting on dressing herself, first stopping to obey her handmaiden's advice. She did not bother dressing well or putting her hair up in the southron fashion, best to get this over with quickly. Chin held high, she exited the chamber with a nod in Sandor's general direction. Avoiding him, she stared straight ahead and waited.

Eerily silent, Sandor walked ahead, expecting her to follow and she did. Sansa felt strong, all the fear had left her body, and what stirred within her was a burning need for... She swayed, resting a hand on the cool stone wall to steady herself but her vision was beginning to blur. His white cloak seemed too bright so she shut her heavy eyelids to stop the blinding haze.

"Keep moving." The hound's growl was usually enough to scare Sansa into compliance but now she had nothing more to fear. The Stranger's arms would be a bittersweet release as her fate was already sealed as long as she lived. Her moonblood and humiliation had already put Sansa in a powerfully foul mood. Her eyes snapped open as her lips parted to berate the insufferable giant when she saw him half-turned in her direction.

Only the smooth side of his face was shown to her, his downcast expression scarcely even resembled the face she knew. In fact, Sansa was certain the hound never looked down at his feet in front of anyone. Yet there he was, standing in that humble fashion, his lowered eyes were level with hers as he stood a few steps lower. Precipitously, she knew exactly what she needed to do, like a pattern being stitched together... or instinct.

"Take me to a corner of the keep where we will not be seen or heard." Her words were hardly a whisper and even Sansa did not know where her bravery came from. After a tense moment, he nodded slightly and turned to continue down the stairway. Inhaling a deep breath and praying to the Mother for guidance, she hurried to follow him. He led her into a narrow servant's hallway just off the stairs.

Sansa had never been in any of these passageways, after a few turns she was completely lost. Sandor seemingly knew which route to take to avoid being seen. They exited to a large garden and he led her back into a small hut. Once inside, he closed and locked the door as Sansa observed the humble surroundings. He faced her and still said not a word, waiting for her to speak first.

"Hold me." The demand was out of her mouth before she considered the ramifications of saying them. There was no time to regret or take those words back before he took a step towards her and gently complied with her request. His unexpected gentleness angered Sansa... flowered and soon to be married but Sandor still considered her just a girl.

"Won't you call me a silly little bird for allowing a dog to hold me in a dark corner?" Her muffled words were delivered in a satisfyingly sarcastic tone. His hands were no longer gentle but Sansa did not care about any pain he may inflict. She reveled in the triumphant feeling of taking her turn to mock him. His japes had angered her many times and now she sent them right back.

"You best not mock the hound, girl," he growled as his hands tightened on her arms. "Dogs bite." No, she gloated inwardly, he can bark all he likes but he won't hurt her. His vice-like grip crushed her against his hard armor.

"You do not scare me anymore, I have nothing left to lose," she whispered. "Why should I be afraid?" Arching her neck back, Sansa tried to look into Sandor's eyes but found he still would not face her. He pressed her head back down more firmly and when he eventually spoke, his voice was low and rumbled in a dangerous way.

"Little bird, you still have something to lose." Sansa knew he was insinuating she could possibly lose her maidenhead right here if he wished it. Smiling wryly against his armored chest, she recognized his barely veiled threat for what it was... protection. He wants her to cry and stop him, to learn she can trust no one, especially not him. She refused to do anything of the sort! Instead, she continued to turn his own words back on him.

"Look at me," she demanded.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/request/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178099940)

# Sandor

The little bird not only dared to give him orders but also commanded to look at his hideous face. He wouldn't've expected anything could shock him more until he found himself obeying her every command. Sandor pulled her from his chest and exposed his whole face, boring into her with his eyes and willing her to fear him. Might be not so bad if she didn't recoil this time - if she held his gaze steady.

She did meet his eyes, her unshed tears glowing brightly in the dim room. The lady looked up at his face without a trace of fear, shining eyes drawing him in like the stupidest moth that ever lived. Sandor lost himself in her gaze, feeling at once everything he hoped to feel every time he demanded that she look at him. This was what he wanted - for her to see him willingly. It felt like acceptance and other rosy shite too good for the likes of him.

"You try to scare me but the truth is you have helped me." At first, her voice was just a whisper but then she found some courage and spoke up. "More than any other person in King's Landing." 

"I've only done-"

"Don't!" Her voice was breaking with pain as the tears overflowed. "I do not fear Joffrey as much as I dread knowing one day I must have his child. If that child is born golden haired... I might hate it," she whispered. Sandor doubted this girl could ever hate anyone's child, let alone her own. He thought to say so but then the fool would never rid her silly head of the notion that he's a decent man. 

"Then Joffrey will have truly destroyed me," she glanced away from him then, her expression full of shame as tears flowed down her face. "The moment he makes me hate my own child." 

"What would you have me do?" Some part of him had been waiting for this moment, when pretty Lady Sansa cried and begged him to save her. Could he do it - betray his king, born of the House who sheltered him and gave him a purpose - all for one girl? No, she's a woman now - he saw the evidence with his own eyes. Her last hope died and she grew desperate to avoid a marriage to that little bastard king.

"If my child was born black of hair, he would resemble his grandfather, King Robert." She spoke too fast, so quickly he must have heard her wrong. "I could love a child with black hair! I could protect him and raise him to be a great king, a good king." Sandor stared at the lady for a long moment - sure that he misunderstood her outburst, until he untied his tongue to reply.

"What kind of madness-?"

"I will never," Sansa boldly cut him off before he could breathe another word. "Let another Lannister sit on that throne as long as I draw breath." She spoke with more ferocity than he ever heard from her before. "If Cersei can get away with putting her own bastard on the throne then so can I." Gone was the timid little bird he loved to mock and in his arms stood a proud wolf-bitch ready to bare her teeth. 

"Little bird." Sandor nearly choked on the growl in his voice - no way had he heard her right, he went over her words in his head. She wants him to sire a bastard for her to make into a king? That was about the whole of it - had she lost her fucking mind!? "You don't know what you're saying-" Accusations of madness died on his tongue when it actually hit him - Lady Sansa Stark would let him have her.

"I know exactly what I'm saying!" She mistook his disbelief for hesitation. "Please, you are the only one I can trust to protect me." That's a mistake, little bird. Sandor stopped bowing like a beaten pup and looked up to see the tears flowing freely down her lovely face. Dogs ought to know their fucking place, shouldn't wish for a pretty highborn maiden to look kindly on him once. The fucking gods know how to make a joke out of him time and again.

"What the fuck do you want me to say?" He snarled down at her bewitching eyes, wide and pleading - looking at him like he had all the answers. "Sweet little bird, asking a dog to 'please ser won't you fuck me and put your child in me'." In two strides, he had her up against the bare wall of the gardener's hut, catching one leg and lifting her skirts. She struggled - women are so fucking fickle. "Be careful what you ask for."

The lady stilled, lifting her small hands to curl around his shoulders as she yielded to his hold. Sandor wanted to scare the foolishness out of the little bird but merely holding her was better than he even dreamt - far too tempting. The hound is no bloody Maester, what does he know of madness? She felt plenty healthy to him. Sandor lifted a hand to pinch her chin, guiding her shy lowered gaze to meet his.

A good man would stop at the maidenly flush on her cheeks and the trembling of her body - the hound wasn't a good man. A red lock of hair fell over her flushed face so he tucked it behind her ear - always wanted to do that - and trailed his fingers down her white throat. The little bird's pulse fluttered under his fingertips as her breaths panted in short panicked puffs. Did she expect him to take her right here and now? The hound didn't want to die for a bleeding fuck!

Using all his years of practiced self-control, Sandor pulled away from her. The lady watched him with her pretty mouth curved down and her brow furrowed, probably trying to read an answer on his face. Foolish little bird - even the buggering king and his mother had no idea that he thinks about taking off their heads every time he sees them. She sulked unhappily but no more tears flowed from her eyes and she gave a small nod of encouragement. The hound didn't need any of that.

He released her though it was physically painful to do so - promising himself a drink, or ten for good behavior. Looking at her disheveled from his fondling would unravel his resolve so he turned his back on her. Closing his eyes - picturing a naked dancing Maester Pycelle - that soon took care of his aching cock. She didn't say a word, likely too terrified to speak, might be already regretting offering to lie with a dog like him.

"We've been gone too long." Sandor hoped that would give him time to think - not his favorite thing to do. He didn't look back before silently opening the door to be sure no one was nearby. The little bird followed him quietly through the garden and towards the queen's room. The silence let him consider her request without losing control and dragging her into some dark corner. 'Stranger - take me now'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'A Man Without Honor' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin. 
> 
> Whew, that was a long one - worth it for the double Sansan, I think. But then I ended up spending a lot of time on the art sets for this chapter: still, necessary. I think creativity is like... sediment in water, and the only way to filter it is to keep switching up how the brain is used so it never gets 'clogged'. Anyway, for the most part, I'm happy I decided to come back and give this fic another shot. If nothing else, my editing skills are becoming honed like a fine blade.
> 
> Thanks everyone for the kudos and comments - *much* appreciated!


	10. Only Dreaming

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/failure/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178648609)

# Cersei

Her scheme to bring Tyrion to heel failed spectacularly and she hated to fail at anything. Her brother obviously had little love for the abducted whore - at least much less than she hoped. If Cersei had a chance to beg her captors for Jaime's release, she would do anything. She would suck Robb Stark, all his bannermen, and all their sellsword's cocks if it would save him. That ugly little man did not once even beg for his woman's life. 

So, her little brother finally realized the purpose of whores. Reaching out with a shaky hand, Cersei picked up the wine carafe to refill her emptied goblet and found it nearly empty. She hurled the ceramic jug across her room, watching with satisfaction as it smashed against the wall. Gods, she hated that ugly imp! He killed her mother, stole her daughter, and now he plotted to kill her son and steal control for himself! Tyrion was pure evil from the day his twisted little body was born so murderously.

How could one brother be all that is goodness and light while the other is a demon from the deepest pits of the seven hells?! She had been too hasty, acting on impulse rather than waiting to act when it would be most effective. This petty revenge was carried out only to sooth her wounded pride and she merely made a fool of herself. Yet doing nothing was driving her to madness!

Cersei could have sworn she gained immunity long ago, to the girlish pain of longing for her man who went to war. Jaime had never been taken captive - he always came back to her! This time, he might never come back because she had no real power to wield. Even a Queen remains as pathetically weak as any woman, even Tyrion's whore. Falling onto her bed, she sobbed harder than she had in years, pulling a pillow under her face to muffle her cries.

"Jaime," she whimpered. "Where are you? I can't do this alone." Curling up into herself, she recalled her favorite memory - the day before that accursed raven came with a command from Kings Landing, bidding her to come and be a queen. The vividness of the sunny blue sky and green grass imprinted on her mind - as was Jaime's smile. He was just a boy then, no older than Joffrey but so full of sweetness and unguarded smiles.

She remembered the bouquet of wildflowers he gathered - darting across the field as she laughed at his antics. Her face hurt from smiling when he got down on one knee and presented the flowers to her, declaring his undying love. He laid her down in that field of wildflowers and she gave him her maidenhead. Cersei did not know until years later that he learned of the missive's arrival the day beforehand.

Sometimes she wondered if he intended to say goodbye on that long ago day or meant to claim her forever. Jaime was hers - he belonged to her from the moment they were born - and she was his. Cersei was doing everything in her power to get him back and was failing miserably. Failure did not suit her, and having cried out years' worth of emotion, she felt refreshed. She would get him back - no matter the cost.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/responsibility/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178646805)

# Robb

They strode along the road, nearing his camp, keeping a slow pace to draw out their last bit of time together. He stayed too long to 'negotiate' The Crag's surrender. The triumph paled in comparison with Lady Talisa's musical laughter and biting retorts. Her cleverness, her beauty: everything about her was refreshing and intoxicating. Robb's nights away from the camp were spent sleepless and alone, as he would never dare approach her.

"He once told me that being a Lord is like being a father." He found himself telling Talisa about his father, not bothering to keep his worship of the man hidden. "Except you have thousands of children and you worry about all of them. The farmers plowing the fields are yours to protect. The charwomen scrubbing the floors: yours to protect. The soldiers you order into battle." 

Lady Talisa kept quiet as she listened intently to his prattling, probably because of some misguided notion that she should respect the 'king'. Ah, but in these moments he could let himself forget about his kingship and endless responsibility. The lady was so easy to talk to, if at times intimidating. That is what made spending time with her so exciting and his heart raced even at the sight of her.

"He told me he woke with fear in the morning and went to bed with fear in the night." Robb laughed at the memory, her presence softened the sharp pain in his chest when he reminisced about father. "I didn't believe him. I asked him: 'how can a man be brave if he's afraid'? 'That is the only time a man can be brave', he told me."

"Most Lords worry more about their gold and their glory than the charwomen scrubbing their floors." Lady Talisa's voice dripped with the disdain she held for said 'lords'.

"He didn't care much about gold or glory." His father would have liked Talisa's opinion and assured attitude.

"And you?" She looked up at him, dark eyes seeming to weigh and measure his honor. Robb felt his defenses rising under such an examining gaze.

"You think I'm fighting this war so they'll sing songs about me?" Robb turned away from her and quickened his step only to stop where he stood and round on her. "I want to go home," he waved a hand in the general direction of his camp. "I want the men following me to go home."

"Then why don't you?" Talisa crossed her arms and stared down her nose at him.

"Because we'll never be safe until the Lannisters are defeated," he faltered as he added, "and because I believe in justice."

"Chopping off Joffrey's head, you mean." She tilted her head sideways and raised an eyebrow.

"That would be a start," his hand rested on his hilt, burning from the need to take that little shit's head himself. He leveled his eyes on her superior expression, regretting his biting tone before the words even spilled from his lips. "The Lannisters have my sisters."

"I'm sorry," her posture immediately relaxed and she bowed her head meekly. "Forgive me, I have no right-"

"You have every right." Robb stopped her, his voice still too commanding. Why did he keep treating her like one of his 'subjects'?

"You're a king," her resigned tone worsened his guilt. It was all going so well before he ruined it!

"That's not the kind of king I want to be," he spoke softly and walked to stand beside her again. He held out his hand in a gesture inviting her to continue their walk.

"What kind do you want to be?" Lady Talisa set a slow pace and Robb hoped she also wished to extend their time together.

"I don't know," he told her honestly, "the good kind." Robb chuckled wryly as he explained his kingly troubles to a woman who spends her days saving men from gruesome deaths. "Most kings grew up as princes. They spend their whole lives preparing for the crown. I was raised to be Lord of Winterfell."

"I was raised to be a proper little lady," she quipped with a genuine laugh, lightening his mood instantly. "To play the harp and dance the latest steps and recite Valyrian poetry."

"I'd like to hear you play the harp," he teased the lady with a grin, happy to see her smiling again. They might disagree in an instant but they were also quick to make amends.

"No," she warned, shaking her head. "No, you would not." Talisa's embarrassed laughter was catching. Robb laughed more at her apparent shame than confessed lack of skill.

"How did you go from reciting Valyrian poetry to sawing off men's feet?" He wanted to know all about her: all their time spent together they only seemed to talk about him.

"When I was twelve-" Talisa was cut short by approaching hoofbeats thundering towards them. They were Robb's men, coming from the camp to greet him.

"Your Grace," the man nodded at Robb in greeting and then at Lady Talisa. "Milady." His mouth hung open as if to speak but no words came. Impatient after the interruption, Robb raised a hand, signaling him to continue: nothing.

"What is it?" Robb's irritation might have intimidated the man. Yet there was more than hesitation in his expression. An uneasy feeling tightened in his gut, as he demanded to know what was wrong. "Tell me!"

"Your Grace," the man spoke Robb's title gravely. "Your wife is ill."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/goodmother/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178643313)

# Merry

The darkness encroached around the edges of her vision as she tried to focus on the hushed whispers between her goodmother and the attending Septa. They spoke so quietly because she is dying and death scares people into being quiet. The Septa left the tent and the quiet turned to silence... the darkness closed in. 

"Robb!" Lady Catelyn announced Robb's entry, stopping Merry's already weak heart. She pretended to sleep, unwilling to face him while knowing she must look like death. "You should not have brought her here," Lady Catelyn hissed. 

"Lady Talisa is a skilled healer," his words cut through Merry's heart like a knife. So the rumors were true, he had taken that woman with him to the Crag. "Let her try-"

"She is already being taken care of," the lady interrupted him in a hushed whisper yet the king was apparently not in the mood for a lecture. 

"Mother," Robb raised his voice and his mother shushed him, fooled into thinking Merry was asleep. "Let me see my wife," he demanded quietly yet insistent... he always had to have his way.

"It is alright, goodmother." Merry ended her charade, beaten down by her curiosity to have a look at the other woman. All three of them cast worried looks in her direction and she tried to give a weak smile of reassurance. "I will take whatever help I can get," she croaked weakly, setting her eyes on Robb and deciding she could not face him in this miserable state. "Though... I would rather," she wheezed and everyone present winced, "not see him at the moment."

"Wife, I'm worried about you." Robb tried to give her one of his pleading looks, soft grey eyes cast down at her as if he actually cared about her condition. Lying eyes... that is what he had. Merry shook her head in denial and leveled the coldest stare she could muster at him. More than once an unrelenting dead-eyed stare chased away annoyances.

"Get out," Lady Catelyn shoved her son towards the tent flap with surprising strength. He tried to protest but she pushed him again. "Get out! Remove yourself at once or I will throw you out myself. I will call for Lady Brienne if I am unable to move you." Robb threw one more forlorn look at his wife but Merry was not touched in the least, she felt too miserable to pity him.

"Merry, I will be right outside," he told her as his mother forced him out. "Let me know if you need anything." Lady Catelyn brushed her hands together and marched to hover near this 'Lady Talisa', as if she would like to remove the young woman as well. Merry used too much effort, reaching out a hand to beckon the woman closer and watched as Lady Talisa approach. Tall, trim, tan, dark, and mysterious... everything Merry was not.

"You are beautiful," she murmured, not meaning to speak aloud. Lady Talisa beamed a devastatingly lovely smile down at Merry and she could not find it in her heart to hate the woman. Or even blame her husband for desiring the pretty healer. The young woman sat down on a small stool by the bedside as Lady Catelyn kept a watchful eye over them.

"Thank you, Your Grace," her voice was soft and musical, how a lady's voice should be. Grandfather always called Merry 'noisy' and said she sounded like a squeaky wheel on an old carriage.

"None of that now," Merry chastised lightly. "I am not a queen... only a king's wife." Merry wished there was less bitterness in her voice but who was this woman that she should try to impress her? Only she would be worried about making a good impression on her husband's paramour.

"That makes you a queen." Lady Talisa's deft hands fluttered over Merry, checking her pulse and feeling her forehead.

"It makes me a vessel for his heirs and I cannot even do that properly." Merry was so weary she could not keep her eyes open. Her mind was whirling and a thought that lingered in the back of her mind pressed forward. This child was going to kill her... like she killed her own mother. "I cannot blame you if you have fallen in love with him. I doubt there is a woman alive who could resist his easy smile and noble heart."

"Your Grace," at least the lady sounded appropriately startled by Merry's words. It did provide some petty satisfaction to shock the woman. "Y-you are mistaken!" Lady Talisa calmed herself and lowered her voice to its soothing cadence once more. "There is nothing between your husband and me."

"Perhaps," Merry conceded, closing her eyes as she nodded. Only the two of them know exactly what happened when they left together for the Crag. "Robb does not love me, that much I do know." Through blurry eyes, she saw pity in the lady's expression. "He does not even know me... I am the price he paid to save his family." Merry's stomach suddenly seized with a desperation only known by the dying.

"Your Grace-"

"Please," she grasped Lady Talisa's hand and locked eyes with her. "No matter the outcome, I want... I want him to be happy." Merry swallowed the sobs trying to rise in her throat, wheezing out her last words as they shattered her heart. "He deserves some happiness." The beautiful woman shushed Merry's panicked pleas and stroked her hair soothingly.

"This weakness is a result of your condition," the healer explained. "Coupled with the stress your mind and heart are under." Lady Talisa squeezed Merry's hand and gave her an admonishing look. "You need rest and to relax. I will give your goodmother a tea that will calm your nerves and is safe for the child." She rose gracefully from the stool and bowed slightly. "Goodnight, Your Grace."

"Goodnight, Lady Talisa." Merry had to admit the woman impressed her. Lady Catelyn exchanged a few hushed words with the beautiful lady before she left. "Goodmother, please ask my husband to speak with me." Robb apparently was waiting, entering as soon as he was called, and strode to her bedside to kneel beside her. "I want to go home," she whimpered.

"You're too weak to go anywhere." Robb reached out for her hand but she used her remaining strength to pull away from his touch.

"As soon as I am well enough to travel," she insisted with as much force as she could muster, "send me home." Merry remembered the day she begged him to keep her by his side: it seemed a lifetime ago. "You told me that I could stay in The Twins if I wanted, well I have changed my mind, and I want to go now."

"There are too many reasons why you can't." Robb was about to provide a long list of excuses that Merry did not want to hear. "Your health-"

"Then it was a lie," she accused coolly and forced herself to meet his worried gaze with an emotionless stare. "How very surprising... I miss my family," she lied. "I even miss my grandfather, he might not be handsome or charming, but he doesn't hide behind false promises and handsome smiles."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Robb appeared positively shocked by her implied accusations but Merry would not be fooled again. "When have I ever lied to you?"

"Every day..." Anger coursed through Merry's body, giving her the strength to raise her voice, even if it was only a ragged croak. "Every night... Every smile, look, and laugh. Every time you touched me with any gentleness was a lie!" Then the rage left her and she slumped back against her pillows to fight for breath.

"Merry please," his voice was strained. "This is not good for the child." Of course, his worry was for the child inside of her instead of herself!

"What would you know?" Merry's words were punctuated by wheezing gasps and hardly as biting as she intended them to be. "You couldn't wait to see if this child was born with a cock to take another woman? Save your fiddle-faddle, Robb Stark. You couldn't tell me yourself, like a man... that you wanted another?" Their promise, to be honest with each other, meant more to her than any wedding vow she swore. All the while, it meant nothing to him.

"You're wrong." Was he really so foolish as to forget that Merry's own cousin was his squire!? "Who said I took up with another? I'll fucking gut him." 

"Gut me then, I say it!" Merry stared at her husband, somewhat gratified by his shocked expression. "Do you think I am blind, deaf, and witless?" His mouth gaped open but apparently had no defense and the satisfaction turned cold in her heart. Truly, she had no right to be angry with him for doing what all husbands do. "This is really all my fault," she did not try to hold back her weeping any longer. "I hoped there was still time..."

"You're mad from illness, wife." Robb tried to soothe her but there was too much shame in his eyes. "There's nothing going on between Lady Talisa and me."

"I never said her name, did I?" Merry sighed wearily and slipped her hand into his. "Will you continue to treat me as a fool?"

"I knew who you were talking about." Robb had the decency to avert his gaze when she simply stared at him in response.

"It is fine, really." Merry's exhaustion won over her anger, arguing was asinine when her heartache resulted from her own wishful dreams. "I am sorry I became angry, forgive me. May I return home for the birth of our child?"

"If that is what you wish," his voice was tight but the words were all that mattered. She was going home and away from this pain. At least she would die in a familiar birthing bed, the one in which she killed her own mother.

"Thank you," her own mumbled words sounded distant as she started to fall back into the darkness. "Your Grace..."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/comfort/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178565636)

# Catelyn

She stood just outside the tent, breathing the cool night air that reminded her of home... Winterfell. Catelyn let her son and his wife have their moment alone but every bone in her body screamed to rush back inside and protect Merry. It seems that a mother's heart never stops growing, maternal protectiveness only expanded with love for her unborn grandchild. Robb abruptly stalked out of the tent.

"Where do you think you are going?" Catelyn rushed forward to block his path with both arms outstretched. How dare he leave when his wife needed care? Was he going to see that woman? He stumbled to a stop and blinked at her with surprise.

"To find you." Robb's tired statement had a ring of truth to it, surprising her. Catelyn was in no mood for reassurance so she kept her guard up but let her arms lower and looked away from his pained expression.

"Oh, I thought..." Catelyn stopped herself with a shake of her head and glanced towards the faint candlelight peeking through the tent. "She is not well."

"Is she," his voice broke over the question, "going to die?" Robb's eyes filled with tears and his obvious pain shattered the ice around Catelyn's heart. 

"I don't know..." Shoulders drooping, she admitted the truth to her son. "It is possible." She watched the grief fill his eyes and knew at once that she had been too hard on him. In truth, she wished he could follow his heart and fall in love with whatever girl he chose. In this life, we receive whatever challenges the gods provide and we cannot run from them, she hoped he learned that from her.

"She wants me to send her back to The Twins." Robb's head hung forward in defeat, as it used to when he would come to her for help as a boy. He was always ashamed when he could not do everything for himself. Her pitiful and proud son never could admit when he needed help.

"Merry is in no condition to travel anywhere," she put her hand lightly under his chin and pulled his eyes up to meet hers, to face the situation head-on. "She has hardly kept any food or water down since you left, and not only because of the child. Merry is suffering a broken heart, an affliction I know all too well." If she had still been carrying Robb when Ned brought Jon home, she might have lost her own firstborn.

"Mother," he pleaded, "you have to trust-"

"Your father!" Greif and pain overwhelmed Catelyn and she pitched forward but her son reached out to steady her. "I could barely touch you for days after he came home from war." Her whispered voice carried the confession that she never wanted to tell. "You screamed for me to hold you... but I was too weary with grief."

"I swear-" 

"I don't care what you have or have not done!" Catelyn clung to his cloak in desperation... Robb's promises were not enough! "You let your wife think the worst, what else matters? Did you ever once consider her feelings?!"

"I-" Robb's mouth fell agape and his stare wavered with near panic. "No, I didn't." He closed his eyes and let out a low slow exhale. "I thought of nothing but myself: I didn't think about her at all."

"My son," she pulled him into her arms, still hearing the long-ago echoes of his cries. He needed her then and she abandoned him for her selfish misery. "You are a king, a good king, beloved by your men and respected by the smallfolk. I am more proud than you can know." Catelyn pulled back and leveled a solemn stare at her son. "Taking care of your family is part of your responsibility as a king, you must remember that."

"I have let you down, I know." Determination set across his face, making Robb look every inch the Northern Warrior King he was extoled to be. "I let Merry down as well. I've justified my actions to myself but I now realize what a fool I've been. Forgive me for disappointing you."

"Do not beg my forgiveness, Robb," she resisted the urge to lecture. "Bran and Rickon are alone in Winterfell. Sansa and Arya are captives in King's Landing. I have five children, and only know that one of them is safe. Now my unborn grandchild is at risk. Please my son, I beg you, consider trading Jaime Lannister for your sisters. Or, at least send me home."

"Mother," his facade of bravado slipped as uncertainty asserted itself. "I cannot make any promises but I will consider your requests seriously." Robb turned back towards the tent. "Right now, I need to stay with Merry." Catelyn heaved a sigh of relief that her son had finally decided to devote himself properly to his wife. With a bit more insistence, he could be convinced to prioritize saving the girls.

"Go," she told him. "Take care of your wife... and your child." Robb nodded without even looking back at her, Catelyn watched him walk to the tent. He hesitated at the entrance, shoulders rising as he took a deep breath of courage. Then he continued inside with his head bowed forward. Her son was a king, a husband, soon to be a father... and he was just a man. Not evil or heroic, simply a young and conflicted man.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/nameday_feast/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178646038)

# Sansa

Picking at the food in front of her, she felt more miserable on this day than on all her other days combined. Notwithstanding the day her father died, obviously. She pushed the plate away, stood to walk aimlessly around her chamber, and waited for someone to interrupt her boredom. Sansa gave into her self-pity and walked over to the freshly made bed to tear back the new covers with some petty satisfaction.

This was the worst nameday in the history of all namedays! Sansa sat down on her mattress with a huff, conceding that her last nameday had been the best of her life. She flopped back onto her bed and groaned, objecting to the false premises that led to her so-called 'happiness' at the time. Then, she had been dreaming of going to Kings Landing to have a grand adventure and marry a prince. By the gods, what a fool she was!

Had anything truly changed since she came to this awful place? She was still a thoughtless, stupid, careless, and silly little girl! His mocking voice rang in her head, 'please, ser, won't you fuck me and put your child in me?' Admittedly, that was what she requested of him... Sansa whimpered another weepy moan and fell onto her side to bury her face into the coverlet. Why did she not wait to ask when he was drunk? The man barely spoke when sober! 

After the riot, she refused to accept that Sandor would truly stand by and watch Joffrey abuse her. Because she suspected, more every time she saw him, that he cared for her. Shae encouraged her to believe so! When the idea occurred, scheming to present an heir to Joffrey actually sired by his dog. Of course, she did not consider Sandor that way, coming to see him as a... something like a friend. 

So she just blurted it out, not knowing how the man would react. Apparently, by ignoring her completely! Every day he went out of his way to avoid eye contact or be alone with her. That must be his answer then... Sandor did not want her and he would not risk helping her. She misread his actions and words, thinking he cared for her especially when he truly was fulfilling his duties to his king.

"Is there something wrong, my lady?" Shae spoke barely above a whisper... Sansa dragged an arm over her head to hide her face... humiliated, rejected, and feeling like the most tactless halfwit in all the seven kingdoms. Only an utter simpleton would try to plot against the king by clumsily attempting to seduce his most loyal Kingsguard. "Tell me, so I can help."

"I have," she mumbled, "made a most grievous mistake." Asking Sandor to help her when he was sober had been foolish! The hound would have agreed. For a moment, she glimpsed the hound as he pinned her against that dirty hut wall. She panicked, thinking he would take her maidenhead right there during her moonblood's cycle! Only later did she regret resisting at all, or at least being clearer about timing. 

"What mistake?" Shae crouched down, trying to peek underneath Sansa's arm.

"Too many to name them all." Sansa should have ignored her embarrassment over her moonblood and encouraged... she had no idea how to seduce a man. Proper ladies don't learn such things from their mothers and Shae seemed to agree with Sansa's assessment of Sandor's interest. "And it's partly your fault."

"I'm sure it is, my lady." The handmaiden took Sansa's arm and pulled her into a sitting position. "I am used to being at fault," she sulked.

"I have asked the hound to be of service to me." At her lady's whispered confession a small smile settled on Shae's lips. "He did not say no, but he did not agree either," she murmured unhappily. "I may have misjudged his... attraction to me." 

"I know a man's eyes." Her musical accented voice sounded assured and even a bit mischievous, somewhat easing the aching worries in Sansa's heart. "The hound looks at you as if he wants to 'serve' you very much - I've seen him watching you." 

"He is avoiding me." Sansa barely noticed the sting of rejection over the rising fear of Joffrey's wrath. "He still might tell the bastard king." Shae tutted at her lady's overly free language, yet her handmaiden was the only person with whom Sansa could speak freely.

"My lady, I think maybe you surprise him." Shae's smile widened and her confident beauty struck Sansa, wishing she could be more like her handmaiden. "You will not have to wait long for him to agree." 

"How can you be so sure?" Oh, how she wished to keep that pathetic note of hopelessness out of her voice.

"Think," Shae tapped her own forehead, "and you will figure it out yourself." Then the handmaiden walked away to the sewing chest and helpfully opened the lid before turning to head towards the door. "I will be back in an hour to bring you something to eat." Once the door was closed behind the handmaiden, Sansa pushed to her feet and shuffled to her sewing chair. She grabbed the first scrap of fabric her hand laid on and started stitching too vigorously.

Her mind did not decide the pattern, allowing her nimble hands to work from their own memory. Was Shae right? Perhaps she had misread Sandor's rejection instead of his attention for he not made any accusations against her yet. Certainly because he truly thinks her mad and so, he pities her. Was it so 'mad' to want a child who only belonged to her? But if he does think she lost her wits, it would be dishonorable for him to agree to... help her.

All along, his only apparent desire was to keep her safe for puzzling reasons. She should keep faith that Sandor would not report her treachery because he would not want to see her harmed. Even in this state of consuming self-pity, she recognized that he was still protecting her. Her hands stopped moving and she looked down to see a beautiful yellow dragonfly on black fabric. 

Every breath she took in this castle could be her last if it served Joffrey's whim to see her killed. No one in her House would be safe as long as Joff ruled over this realm. As his queen, she will be one of the only people capable of dethroning his line forever. If somehow, she might convince Sandor that the best way to keep her safe is to help her plan succeed, he might aid her. The handmaiden entered the room, bearing a tray of food.

"Shae!" Sansa quickly folded the project, setting it inside her chest to be hemmed later, and launched from her chair to grab Shae's arm. The handmaiden had only just set down the tray of food before being whirled around. The older woman looked surprised by her lady's sudden movement and fell down to take a seat at the table.

"I have made a decision about what I want," she told Shae insistently as she sat down across from her. The dark beauty beamed proudly and nodded in encouragement. "I want to prevent another Lannister from ever sitting on the throne again." Sansa never once let her tongue falter and saying it aloud only strengthened her desire to see the deed done. "To do this, I must become Queen and my son... a Stark will be the next King."

"My lady, this is a dangerous game you want to play." Shae's eyes narrowed but she appeared as if she approved of Sansa's choice. "Revenge is a worthy goal - do not let anyone tell you otherwise." The handmaiden cocked her head to the side and grinned mischievously. "Do you remember what I told you about being Queen?"

"Yes," Sansa answered seriously before clarifying, "I will have the power to do as I wish... I wish for vengeance." Shae nodded again, her dark eyes shone with understanding of her lady's determination. 

"Your prince will need a sire," the handmaiden eyed Sansa with a knowing expression. "The hound is a good choice."

"I am uncertain if that will come about," she sighed and glanced away. "Will you continue to give me advice on the matter?" Sansa knew her voice was shy and high-pitched, making her sound like a toddling infant. They were discussing a woman's topic and she still wanted to whine like a child, causing her eyes to lower with shame. Shae removed one hand from her lady's hold and smoothed it over her hair, reminding Sansa of her mother.

"Sansa," for a handmaiden to address her lady so informally was a grievous offense but Sansa had come to care for Shae as a protector and friend. "I will care for you and give you all the advice you want as long as I am in your service." Grateful tears prickled Sansa's eyes but she declined to let them spill. Overcome with affection for the woman, she threw her arms around the handmaiden and hugged her tightly.

"I would be lost without you," she told her cherished handmaiden. Shae was like the older sister Sansa always dreamed of having. 'I offer my humblest gratitude to the Crone', she prayed, 'for sending her guidance through Shae. Smith, inspire a plan that will destroy my enemies. Protect me, Mother, for I am playing a deadly game. Warrior, continue to guide Sandor's sword to guard me. Forgive me, Maiden, I will remain pure of heart... if I can.'

'To the Old Gods of the North, the gods of my father and his father before him, I ask nothing for myself. I only request you keep my siblings safe. Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon... Jon. If I am ever to see them again, I must become a person they will not recognize.'

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/fly_to_me/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178563016)

# Sandor

His eyes shot open to see a cloaked shadow standing at the foot of his bed. The hound planned to destroy whoever dared disturb his sleep when she turned, a long red lock of hair slipping from the dark cloak. Her pale hand seemed to glow in the moon's low light coming from a single window. She lowered the hood and underneath, the little bird wore her usual timid expression, eyes wide and lips parted.

"Sandor," she whispered, unclasping her cloak to let it fall, revealing she wore only a nightshift underneath. The moonlight reflected off the white fabric and her gleaming hair, appearing to brighten the dimness surrounding her. The little bird bunched the frock in her fist and climbed onto his featherbed - slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. Each movement of her legs rolled and swayed her hips temptingly as she crawled closer to his unmoving form. 

Her unbound tresses came to life as they licked and trailed around her shoulders, tumbling along her waist as she crawled towards him. The hound needed to grab her and crush her underneath him but his arms were locked in place, wanting to reach out to her but unable. Sandor was frozen, too stunned to manage even a twitch. His voice halted in his throat - though the hound had nothing to say anyway. 

"Please, give me a child." Sansa rose to her knees beside him, drawing the shift above her head, baring her radiant unblemished flesh. Her warm fingers trailed over the sheet before dragging it down to expose his stiff manhood. She braced one palm on his chest for balance as she slipped a leg across him, lifting herself to sit astride his hips. The hound fought to get free - to sink his teeth into her warm flesh trembling above him - Sandor somehow managed to hold back. 

Her other hand took ahold of his cock as she lowered herself slowly, guiding his harness inside her tight cunt, and crying out when it sheathed to her hilt. The strained note might have been sung in pain or pleasure - the hound didn't fucking care - the sound unleashed his restraint. The little bird's song cut off as he sat up and snared her waist with one arm, pulling her soft body tight against his.

Sandor savored the taste of her sweet lips, roughly nipping and sucking them before pushing his tongue inside her mouth. The untamable hound ate her like a ravenous beast tasting its prey. His hand twisted in her bright hair, she moaned against his mouth and pulled her arms free from their prison between their bodies. The little bird hooked her talons into his shoulders for leverage, clinging to him with eager passion.

"I'll fucking tear you apart," he heard his own growling voice tell her. "You're mine - you belong to me, little bird." All of a sudden, he was unable to move as his body was forced down to the mattress. Her light fingers trailed up his torso, imprisoning him with unnatural strength by some impossible means.

"Bad dog," she chided as some power restrained him. He felt her pushing on his chest - he felt it but he couldn't see her. She hid from him even in his dreams! Fuck, knowing it's a dream makes it end - but it didn't. "I am no little bird." Sansa's words were only a husky whisper but sounded dangerous. "I am a wolf." Then a smirking face - not fitting the voice - popped into his sight and turned his stomach.

"Hound," she said - but it wasn't her! It was - her - the littlest wolf-bitch! What's her name - 'A' something? Whatever her bloody name was didn't matter, it was that wild little Stark girl! Fucking bloody seven hells! Mercifully, the girl was dressed - as a boy - squatting on his gut in dirty boots. Her wry smirk became a sneer when she glanced down at his naked body.

"Get the fuck off me," Sandor snarled at the girl.

"Tell Sansa the Old Gods are listening but they cannot see her," the little Stark bitch instructed in a bored tone. Her unconcerned-as-fuck expression seemed strangely familiar, a thing he might've puzzled on if he wasn't uselessly trying to tear the girl's throat out. The hound was still trapped against his bed - defeated in a dream by two shewolf pups!

"WHAT THE FUCK!!!?" He roared awake, ripping apart the pillow he'd apparently been fucking, scattering downy feathers snowing everywhere in his chamber. Sitting in the middle of his mussed sheets - still rock hard - he surveyed the mess with a weary sneer. The hound growled before snorting off a feather stuck in his beard. "What the fuck?" Sandor asked the darkness - not really expecting an answer - but got one.

'I could love a child with black hair', came the dark's whispered reply - without a doubt using Lady Sansa's voice. The hound scanned the dank room for her but of course, she wasn't there - bloody half-conscious fool. He slumped back onto the mattress, a long breath whooshing out of his lungs in relief and disappointment. His dreams never seemed that real and he actually thought the little bird had flown to him.

Until the littlest wolfbitch perched on his chest and ruined everything! He didn't have time for this shite since Stannis was bringing an army of men who wanted to fucking take his head. Sandor liked his head - ugly as it was - so he needed to keep it focused on not dying. Lady Sansa was a distraction that he'd let go on too long already. Women are soft and they can make men soft as well. Soft men die - the hound wasn't going to die.

He was going to live, fight, and earn coin to pay for drink. Might get to kill Gregor someday - he'd never get to do that if one of Stannis' men got him first. No, the little bird was dead to him and he never should have encouraged her to think he was 'good'. It put all sorts of fucked up thoughts in her pretty stupid head. Besides, if he ever saw her alone again, she'd probably beg him to forget all about her foolish offer.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/red_in_darkness/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178641611)

# Arya

"SANSA!" Arya fought to reach past the shadowy darkness to grasp the glimmer of her sister's red hair peeking behind it. Just a little further... Sturdy hands gripped her, dragging her back away from the shadow and from Sansa. No! She struggled to reach that single red lock but the dimness appeared to collect around her sister. Please! I need to see that she is unhurt! The hands shook her awake. 

"Arya," Gendry called her name gently but she could only whimper in response. "Arry, please wake up." She opened her eyes to see him watching her with a worried expression. A shaky sigh escaped her throat as she attempted to speak his name. Arya realized she was trembling from head to toe, despite being heated by his body. The dream stayed with her, permeating the dim of the room. 

"Yer shaken like a leaf," he pulled her into his warm embrace, rubbing his hand soothingly along her back. "Bad dream?" Arya pondered what caused her to shout out her sister's name, only recalling the looming blackness in front of her. The experience did not seem like a nightmare - it was more like a vision. Her sister's red tresses were calling to her and trying to tell her something. 

"I," she croaked embarrassingly - as if she'd been weeping. "Uh-hmm," Arya cleared her throat before starting over. "I don't remember," her mumbling was muffled by his firm chest, "I think - I thought I saw my sister." Her voice sounded dangerously close to breaking as she strained to remember more details. "I cannot recall anything else." 

"Hush, it's alright." Gendry moved his hand higher to pet her hair the way she enjoyed - less now that he also petted that stupid weasel. "I'm amazed you don't wake screamin' more often," he sighed. "After what you've been through." Arya bristled at his pity - she did not need it. 

"I can handle it," she retorted. Her quick temper earned a rumbling chuckle from Gendry, vibrating against her face. Was he always half-unclothed? She could have sworn he wore his short robe to bed. Just like that, her dream was the furthest thing from her mind as she slipped a hand between them to trace the trail of dark hair on his hard stomach. His skin felt hot and smooth under her fingers. 

"I know you can, wolfgirl." Gendry's voice lowered the way it always did when she touched him. Arya slid a leg between his and pushed her hip against the stiff bulge in his breeches. For once, he did not try to push her away, instead cupping beneath her arms and sliding her up. She smirked as their eyes met, seeing her own hunger reflected in his heated gaze. Nothing made her feel more - oh bloody hells! 

"By the Old Gods and the new!" She huffed at the kit as it jumped up from behind Gendry's head and rested its paws on his shoulder. "You - out!" Arya wrenched her hand from her bull's flawlessly sculpted form and pointed to the foot of the bed. There was no way she was going to share - these moments - with that thrice-damned rat. It squeaked in alarm, climbed down his leg and jumped off the bed. 

"Aww," Gendry ruffled her hair and chuckled at her. "Com'on, Arry," he coaxed. "He's just worried about you." Ugh! As if that creature could want anything other than to dig up grubs and eat them. Arya had her own meal in mind - a nice serving of well-muscled bull - and that kit was constantly getting in her way! 

"It is the bane of my existence," she grumbled unhappily. Arya was even more annoyed by Gendry's insistence that he keep the kit as a pet despite the fact that she hates it. That creature was the only source of conflict between them - and he didn't even argue! He just gave her that infuriatingly attractive grin and beamed those blue eyes at her. What was she mad about again? Obviously nothing important. 

"You're so beautiful," he murmured while gazing at her all adoringly. She doubted it was true but Gendry seemed stupid enough to believe it. Why correct him? If he thought she was attractive then that made her beautiful - in a way. His gaze dropped to her mouth and Arya thought her heart might burst out of her ribs. He wanted to kiss her! This time she wasn't going to wait for him - he's too slow!

She seized him, locking her arms around his neck, and crushing her lips against his before he could dare utter a useless protest. Gendry gasped in surprise, parting his lips so she took full advantage. Arya rose up to lean on her forearm and bent over him to gain the upper hand. Catching his lower lip with her teeth, she sucked hard as she shaped her body to fit his. The robe separating their skin was torturing her!

Arya tore her mouth away from Gendry's, ignoring his confused expression as she struggled to disentangle herself. When he realized what she was trying to do, he seized the hem of her robe and bunched it in his fists to stop her. They were panting heavily and staring at each other - his eyes filled with hesitation but she felt too determined. The stupid bull was more difficult to seduce than the Maiden herself!

She let go of her robe to push him back onto the mattress and he allowed it. Arya grinned down at his wary expression as she crawled atop him to sit astride his torso. Slowly, she relaxed down just above the laces of his breeches. Gendry sucked in a sharp breath but did not argue with their precarious position. There was an unspoken agreement to overlook the small matter of neither of them ever wearing smallclothes to bed.

Nothing separated Arya's womanhood from Gendry's taunt stomach, the swells and ridges of his muscles molded against the aching between her legs, causing her to moan with relief. Some instinct led her palms forward to balance on his broad chest and she experimentally rocked her hips against him. Oh Gods! An intense shiver of delight coursed through her. 

"Arya," he groaned her name as his palms slid up her thighs to grasp her hips, digging his fingers into her flesh. The slight pain only heighted the urge to move against him so she did, this time curling her back to slide down his hard body. "Oh fuck!" Gendry squeezed his eyes shut but Arya longed for him to see her - to know who was making him feel this - intense feeling. 

"Gendry please," she pleaded - might have been a whine - sliding her hands from his muscled torso to grip his wrists. He opened his eyes as she tugged his hands away from her hips and guided them up above her waist to rest just below her teats. Please, she silently begged, craving his touch everywhere on her body. The bull was merciful, stroking his rough fingers over the fabric covering her chest.

His fingertips barely grazed the peaks of her teats, but the sensation spread fire through her chest, ripping a high-pitched cry from her throat. She leaned forwards to fit her teats into his strong hands and slid against his hard stomach again. Both sensations united to create one building pressure inside her, coiling out from between her legs with a mounting pulse. Gendry's lingering restraint broke as he groaned a string of curses.

He returned one hand to her thigh but did not halt there - it snuck beneath her robe. His callused fingers scraping her skin sent flames licking over her and she nearly melted when he cupped one teat. Gendry brushed a thumb lightly over the sensitive peak and her head fell back, panting moans of bliss. Sensations of swelling pleasure drove her to a frenzy as a loud wail tore from her throat. A light flashed across her eyes and her body convulsed as if struck by lightning.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/rowboat/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=178639090)

# Gendry

Arya howled above him: head tilted back and face flushed prettily. Gendry would have thanked the gods for such a sight but he was busy trying to hold back from filling his breeches with his seed. His wolfgirl wasn't making it easy for him, that's for sure. Rocking her hips and begging him to touch her, bloody hells. By the gods: how'd he get this lucky? Her shaking slowed as she slumped forward to his chest.

His heart thundered against her cheek and his lungs fought to pull in a deep breath while she lay motionless on top of him. Had she fallen asleep? Arya stirred, her head hanging forward, as she slowly rose up to settle her heavy-lidded eyes on his face. A lazy smirk curled her lips before she dragged herself by his shoulders to press her lips softly to his. Gendry felt slickness between her legs and the warm wetness caused his stomach to tighten beneath her.

Arya gasped and jerked away in response, panting again as her eyes widened with some kind of understanding before she settled back down. They stared at each other in amazed wonder: Gendry could barely breathe, his already iron-hard cock turned to steel. She pulled up her robe as she laid the full length of her body atop his with both legs curled on each side of his ribs.

Her skin was hot and her soft teats molded against his chest. Gendry knew he was already going to the seven hells for all he'd done with Arry, might as well enjoy life. One hand unwillingly left her soft flesh to yank at his laces and take himself in hand. The other found the back of Arya's neck and pulled her smiling lips to his. He stroked his cock as he plunged his tongue into her mouth and she returned the kiss with equal hunger.

Gendry had fucked his hand plenty, more times than he could count since he was a lad, but it never felt like this. He could almost feel her wet heat surrounding his cock, though she was only pressed against his tensing stomach. Arya's fingers twisted in his hair as she nipped his lips and sucked on his tongue. His release shot through him: sending his seed spurting out all over and making a mess of things.

He moaned low against her mouth, drawing out the pleasure with a few final strokes. Damn the consequences: it was worth it. That thought came too soon. The door suddenly burst open and Brother Symon came rushing inside, turning to bar the door before seeing them. Too bad neither of them had the wits to use his instant of distraction: both just froze in place and stared at the intruder. 

"My lady! You must hurry-" The Green Priest's voice sounded nervous but his words cut off when he saw the two of them tangled up together. "Oh!" The man lifted a hand over his flushing face and turned his back. "I am terribly sorry, but you must leave at once!" The man hurried over to the small corner table and began packing things into Gendry's knapsack. Arya jumped from the bed, yanking her robe down. 

"Brother Symon," her voice and expression betrayed not a speck of embarrassment over being caught in bed with a bastard. "What's wrong?" Arya rounded on the man to demand answers, taking up the Green Priest's attention. Gendry quickly laced up and grabbed his tunic from the floor where he'd tossed it the night before. Symon shoved the full bag into his hands as soon as he was dressed. 

"They are coming for you," the priest locked eyes with Gendry. "Now." All of a sudden, Arya ripped the bag from his grasp and rifled through it, pulling out breeches. "You must leave... grab what you can and-" Brother Symon abruptly froze and his eyes glazed over to a pale lavender. "They're here," those whispered words hit Gendry in the gut like a fist. Fear fueled him into action as she rounded on the priest. 

"Who?!" Arya demanded answers from Brother Symon as Gendry finished gathering their few simple belongings. "What's going on?" She never sounded scared but her 'anger' was reaching a boil, the wolfgirl grabbed the man and slapped him hard across his face. The Green Priest choked and sputtered back from whatever dream he was lost in. 

"No time!" Brother Symon grabbed Arya's hand that slapped him and dashed for the door. "Hurry, you must make a run for it." Outside, shouting voices sounded in the distance and the Green Priest froze once more: this time out of fear. "Gods protect us," his voice quavered a terrified prayer. 

"Come, Wolfsbane!" Gendry called the weasel as he grabbed two winter mantels out of the small chest of drawers beside the bed. Wolfsbane scurried up the leg of the bed and bounded next to the sack he was stuffing. Ungentle in his haste, Gendry picked up the weasel and packed him as well. "Sorry 'bout this." 

"Forget that stupid rat!" Arya screeched as she attached her sword to her belt. Brother Symon bravely took a step towards her, covering her mouth with his hand and moving to press his ear to the door. Outside it was quiet: too quiet. Arya grumbled a noisy protest into the man's hand but he shushed her insistently. 

"Quiet," the Green Priest whispered as he released Arya. "Stay here and do not make a sound." Then he slipped through the door and Gendry turned his attention back to making sure he had everything packed. Looking around the room he was struck with sadness that he would never come here again. This little room was the closest thing he ever had to a happy home. 

"They are looking for me," she hissed angrily, a hand on her sword's hilt. "I'll die before they take me back to Kings Landing." 

"Hopefully it'll not come to that." Gendry tried to smile reassuringly but could not manage more than a frown. "Besides, milady, how'd you know they are looking for you? I'm a wanted man, ye know?" More shouting came from outside and Gendry pressed his ear against the door to hear the muffled exchange. 

"My friends, we are harboring no one but those faithful to the Old Gods," he recognized Brother Symon's voice. "This isle is protected by-" The priest's words cut off, followed by a loud thud. They were beating him! Gendry held himself back from rushing outside: he did not know how many opponents there were and he'd never been much of a fighter anyway. 

"Shut your mouth, old man!" A strange voice roared from behind the door, followed by another sharp thwack. "Tell us where she is!" Gendry flew back as the door burst open: at first, he thought someone was coming in but it was Arya running out. Sword drawn, she rushed outside before he could reach out and stop her. He followed hot on her heels to see Brother Symon cowering on the ground as Arya lunged at his attacker. 

"You little bitch!" The large, dark haired knight clutched his jaw with a scream as blood drained from his face: she managed to ambush the man, swinging her pointed weapon at his jaw and cutting it clean open. She was likely aiming for his throat. "Get her!" Two sellswords stood behind the first, they both charged at Arya in full armor with broadswords but she only laughed and assumed her water dancing stance. 

"Not gonna happen!" Gendry saw red: roaring as he ran to haul Arya behind him by the scruff of her tunic, not sure what he planned to do. Then a pale blur launched from the pack around his shoulder and onto the closest man's neck. The knight shouted and tried to swat the creature off as Wolfsbane gnawed on his throat. "Wolfsbane!" As fast as he left, the little kit crossed behind the man's shoulders and jumped back to Gendry.

Blood poured from the man's neck as he fell to a knee: two down and one still coming. The third man had been shortly distracted, leaving the just enough time to haul Brother Symon to his feet and flee with Arya's help. The sellsword was quickly gaining as the Green Priest led them into a dense part of the godswood. Their pursuer was hot on their heels when he caught Gendry by the shoulder, bringing them both down.

They struggled on the ground before the man overtook Gendry and kneeled over him, raising his broadsword. Then needle pierced the sellsword's exposed throat, a low gurgling sound came from the man's mouth as his sword clattered to the ground behind him. He fell limply forward, on top of Gendry, crushing him under the dead weight and armor. Pushing the man off, he scrambled to his feet and without thinking grabbed Arry's hand.

They raced, holding each other's hands tight: it felt so different from all the times they'd done the same thing for fun. Gendry and his wolfgirl ran for their lives. It seemed like they lost the men chasing them but they did not stop running until the trees thinned and the shore came into view. Brother Symon led them to a crumbling dock where a rowboat was tied. All three of them climbed in and Gendry moved to take the ores. 

"Are you alright?" Arry's voice was shaky as she sat down beside him. Gendry nodded and looked over his shoulder to check on the Green Priest. The man sat in the front of the rowboat, staring in the opposite direction and muttering what sounded like a prayer. Looking back at her, he took her in from head to toe: looking for any damage. "Truly?"

"Just a little banged up," he admitted with a weak smile. "But I'll heal. How 'bout you?" Arya shrugged at his question and averted her eyes. Likely, she was thinking of the man she killed to save him. At that moment, Gendry could not deal with anything aside from rowing so he didn't bring it up. 

"I'll live," she answered, her voice a low whisper. Arry drew in a ragged breath and brought her dark eyes up to meet his. "I killed that man." Her voice had turned as cold and biting as the winter wind blowing against them. He stopped rowing and took her hand in his. Her fair little hand used needle to kill a man: to protect him. No matter what her hands did, Gendry would always want her touch. 

"You saved me," he told her as gently as he could, "probably Brother Symon too." Gendry watched her face for any change of emotion but she only shook her head once and stared blankly at him. She pulled her hand from his so he resumed rowing: like the rejection didn't tear his heart into a hundred tiny shards. Arya stared off in silence for a time: the only sounds were the priest's murmured prayers and lapping water. 

"You would have been safe if not for me," she spoke again in that same dead voice. "I put you in danger." When Arry got like this, it scared him more than if she was a normal girl: sobbing and carrying on. Instead she got quiet and unusually still, her eyes darkened until they were more black than gray. 

"Hey," he cocked his head to the side and forced a grin at her. "I put you in plenty of danger: don't forget they're after me too." Gendry scoffed a laugh at his own gloomy thoughts. "Though, I doubt they want me alive." Her eyes narrowed angrily at his words. 

"I'll never let anyone take you," she vowed seriously, "I'll protect you - always." 

"Always," he agreed. Every time he said that word to Arya, it seemed less and less like a falsehood. Over time, he'd begun to believe his own lies about how long they could be together. Did she realize that when he said 'always', he really meant: 'I love you'? Neither of them spoke another word as he rowed them away from the isle to the shore of the Riverlands.

Gendry's arms were used to hard work but they ached by the time the little boat made it to the riverbank. He hopped out into the knee-high icy water to haul the rowboat onto the shore, afterwards Arya and Brother Symon got out. The green priest faced them: his ashen face was even more pale than usual. 

"Arya Stark and Gendry of Kings Landing... here we must part ways," he told them in a solemn voice. "Head west to find a village a half a day's walk from here," he retrieved a coin purse from his mantle's pocket. "There you can buy a horse and the supplies you will need." 

"I shall find some way to repay you," Arya promised as she reached out to take the pouch. Brother Symon only smiled sadly at her and put his emptied hand on her shoulder. 

"I will never see either of you again in this life." Brother Symon put his other hand on Gendry's shoulder and peered into his eyes. "The Old Gods are watching over you, be sure to seek their guidance when the time comes." He smiled at them one last time, but looked like he needed to say much more, squeezing his hand tighter before releasing them. "Good luck to you both." 

"Goodbye, Brother Symon," he never particularly liked the Green Priest or his odd religion but now that they were parting, Gendry realized he would miss the man. Symon treated everyone the same: saying farewell to them together as if he and Arya were equals. Arry simply nodded at the man and grabbed Gendry's hand to start heading westward without a glance back.

Following Arya's lead, he stayed quiet as their journey unexpectedly started again. They had known their time of the isle was meant to last only a short while, but something about that strange place was special. Nothing about the Isle of Faces felt familiar or comforting but it was oddly warm despite the cooling winter air blowing in from the North. Leaving the isle was like waking up on a cold morning: Gendry wished he could've stayed in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'The Prince of Winterfell' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin. 
> 
> Endless thanks to ja495ck inspiring me to work harder to perfect this chapter! 
> 
> I wish I had a memory eraser so that I could proof-read my story without all the background noise filling in the missed details. Stories are like constellations: I can clearly see the outline, but someone else can see something entirely different that I can't see. So, my 'inner eye' changed its perspective to puzzle out the concerns raised in ja495ck's comment. 
> 
> It was a thrilling and terrifying experience: I never before wanted to quit something and stay the course at the same time. This 'mental transformation' needed to be dialed in quite a bit so I didn't damage my brainstuffs. It's not easy: forgetting knowing things you already knew. So, right now I'm struggling to be less coy about where this story is going and why. 
> 
> Even though it is dreadfully hard work, without ja495ck's honesty - I would never have even attempted to proof-read my story using such a difficult tactic. At the end of every sentence I asked 'why' and if I couldn't find an answer in the chapter then I tried to incorporate one without being too blunt. Omg, I'm so exhausted! But this time it turned out much better than the original chapter(s), I feel good about that.
> 
> Every time I think I'm getting better at writing: I realize how much more there is to learn...  
> 


	11. Promises

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/sickbed/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179669172)

# Robb

Merry wasted away and she never appeared more than slender to begin with. Robb rested an elbow on his knee, holding his forehead, unable to watch his wife become frailer. A Silent Sister puttered about, spreading some odd-smelling smoke from a smoldering branch. The woman muttered a quiet prayer as she paced the tent, then extinguished the branch. His wife stirred, uttering a few incoherent words before falling still as death: only her chest rose with faint breath. 

He resumed his vigil, waiting for her to wake. Merry shrank away while her stomach grew and part of Robb hated himself for getting her with child. Then he dragged her around as if one of his bannermen: as he treated his own mother. Lady Catelyn Stark would never lower herself by showing a moment of weakness but she was just as unused to harsh conditions as Merry. He ought to send them both to Winterfell for their own protection. 

Robb roughly rubbed his hands over his face, questioning his own sanity for all the choices he had made. Lady Talisa lingered in his mind, washing his heart in guilt every time he looked at his wife. 'Gods, old and new, forgive me. Don't take her from me: give me another chance to make it right!' 

"Robb?" Her voice was thready and low, as if calling from a great distance. Was she already leaving him? He held out a hand, halting her struggle to sit up. It was unnecessary to push her down because just resting a hand on her shoulder caused her to collapse onto her pillow. The only colors gracing her paleness were the small blue veins running under her skin, dark purple around her eyes, and a red flush of fever in her gaunt cheeks. 

"How do you feel?" Robb's own pathetic voice disappointed him: he should sound strong for her at least. Her pale blue eyes watched him and for once, they betrayed no emotion whatsoever. This dullness served as a wall, he realized she was protecting herself from him. He longed to see her healthy and happy, smiling merrily once more. Were the gods so cruel as to punish him this way? 

"You should not be here," Merry's breath wheezed between each word. The rattling sound coming from her lungs terrified him more than a thousand Lannister soldiers. "You have important duties to attend..." Her words stopped yet her lips kept moving: her eyelids fluttered as she fought for consciousness. Robb's hand closed the small distance between them to curl his fingers around hers. She blinked and focused her icy eyes on him again. 

"Don't send me away," Robb battled his bittersweet emotions. His wife remained the sole person he ever begged for anything. "I can't focus on my duty if my thoughts are with you." The Silent Sister approached the bedside and murmured an inaudible order in Merry's ear. She agreed weakly and sat up using the healer's help. The woman handed her a ceramic cup that had tendrils of steam rising above it. 

"With our child." Merry quietly corrected him, her indifferent stare peering over her cup. She watched him, drinking and waiting for a response. Robb had none to give her: no matter what he said, she refused to accept his words as true. Of course, he wanted the child born healthy but he also needed Merry there to be a mother and a wife. "We promised to be honest." 

"Wife," he stopped himself to catch the Silent Sister's eye and waved the woman away. When they were alone, Robb faced his wife determinedly. "I can't send you home. We're almost to Riverrun: there you will be cared for day and night by a Maester." She opened her mouth to reply. "Don't argue." The hot drink had returned some color to her face. "Drink," he ordered and she drank another sip. 

"Why not send me with a small party?" Merry's brows narrowed with concern. "Your army should be marching south." 

"My men and I will need to strategize an attack on Kings Landing," he told her. "In that time, I still hope diplomacy might be an option. You know that I don't want this war: I want to take you and our family home." 

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Her unemotional question cut straight to his heart, though it should not have surprised him one bit. 

"I should've kept you informed from the start," he lowered his eyes, avoiding her impassive gaze. Robb wondered why he ever found it difficult to be forthcoming with Merry. She was clever and supportive of him, taking her position seriously, and fulfilling her duty to their House. Meanwhile, while he paid her no heed and allowed this illness to befall her. 

"I will do as I am bid, Your-" 

"If you call me 'your grace' one more time: I'm going to start calling you Merianne." He leveled his most kingly gaze at her, gratified by her widened eyes. Robb intended to tear down this wall between them, even if it was built by his own hands. 

"You... would not dare." Her aghast horror was the exact reaction Robb expected. 

"Oh," he grinned as she narrowed her eyes into a scowl: at least annoyance was some kind of emotion. "But I most certainly would." She looked away but Robb saw the smile tugging at her lips. "There's my merry wife," he teased. Her lightened expression plummeted as the emptiness reoccupied her eyes. Frustrated and desperate, he fell to his knees beside the bed and held her hand with both of his. 

"Merry, please believe I never betrayed our vows." His impassioned pleading did nothing to defrost her cold stare. "I admit my heart was swayed, I am sorry. I can't undo it and I won't make promises you won't believe." Robb bowed his head, his voice lowered to a choked whisper. "I will treat you better." He stopped, not trusting himself to continue without breaking down completely. 

"I wish to trust you again," she whispered after a long silence. Encouraged by her softened expression, Robb hoped she might yet give him an opportunity to make things right. Being a husband and a king delivered a far greater challenge than he dreamed possible, yet he made the decision to give his all. 

"Don't fret about trusting me right now." Robb rose to finish preparing to leave for Riverrun. "Finish," he pointed at the cooling cup in her hand, "and rest." He felt her impassive stare following him as he left the tent, wishing he knew what she thought. Merry had always been something of a mystery, due to his own inattention. His resolution was already made: to become the husband and leader he ought to be. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/pride/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179643394)

# Brienne

She could admit the dullness was getting to her: keeping watch over the kingslayer sounded more exciting than it actually was. The insufferable man did everything in his power to drive her to madness, sometimes even singing bawdy tavern songs at the top of his lungs! It would not be quite so horrible if Jaime Lannister could carry a tune to save his life. At least he exhausted himself enough to sleep but then the boredom set in. 

"Lady Brienne," a man's unfamiliar voice called her name but Brienne recognized him right away. The King in the North, Robb Stark, approached on horseback. Several men accompanied him, leading the prison wagon to the kingslayer's pen. So, they would be moving on again. 

"Your Grace," she walked away from her post, greeting King Robb with a slight bow. She remained conscious of how it often aggravated men that she towered over them. The handsome young man gave a fatigued but sincere smile that relaxed her. 

"I've long wanted to thank you for your service: both to my mother and in guarding the kingslayer." He waved a hand in the said man's direction. "Duty always seems to distract me." 

"You honor me, Your Grace." Brienne rose to her full height, intent on giving him a good impression. 

"We will continue to Riverrun soon," he told her. Brienne heard that their slow pace was due to the Queen's failing health and she prayed for the poor young woman. "I am counting on you to keep the lion in his cage." She eyed the wagon cage before focusing on the King and nodding once. "I want him in front with me: I trust he will make another attempt before long." 

"You can depend on me, Your Grace." Brienne squared her shoulders as she spoke. 

"My lady," he closed his eyes and touched his forehead before flashing a sheepish smile. "If you could not add 'your grace' to every reply." King Robb gave a shuddering sigh, as if he regretted his request. 

"Of course, I'm sorry, Your-" She stopped herself by biting her tongue. 

"Thank you, Lady Brienne." King Robb was young, kind, and handsome, much like King Renly was. Brienne hoped he possessed the strength to survive this war. "When this war is over, I will see you are well rewarded for your devotion." He dismissed her with a nod, mounted his horse, and headed into camp. As she drew near where Jamie Lannister sat shackled within his prison, he called out. 

"What did 'his grace' want?" The kingslayer's tone was as arrogant as ever. "A captive Knight has a right to know his captor's intentions." Brienne tolerated every nasty insult he spewed but hearing a grown man whine was more than she could take. 

"King Robb has ordered I escort you," she answered. "He intends to move his camp to Riverrun." 

"I'm still to ride in that ghastly thing?" Jaime made a disgusted sound. "Is the young wolf so afraid of a bound man that he won't give me the dignity of riding a horse?" She ignored him as she unlocked the cage's door. "No answer? Has anyone ever told you you're as boring as you are ugly?" 

"You will not provoke me to anger." Brienne reached down and yanked the bound man to his feet, jerking him outside the pen. She removed one manacle and winced at the rough condition of his skin. Jaime hissed in pain and cupped the freed wrist before she attached the emptied manacle to the pen. 

"I already have," he sneered. "Look at you: you're ready to chop my head off." She kept busy, releasing his chain to attach it within the prison wagon. "Do you think you could beat me in a fair fight?" The kingslayer shouted his challenge after her. "The answer is no," he informed her haughtily. "There are three men in the kingdoms who might have a chance against me: you're not one of them." 

"I've never seen you fight," she detached the manacle from the pen to rebind his hands. Brienne held the length of metal and led him along like a dog on a leash. "But all my life men like you have sneered at me." She snorted at the plethora of lovely memories. "And all my life I've been knocking them into the dust." 

"If you're so confident, unlock my chains." He yanked on the chain to gain her attention, lifting his manacled hands, an eyebrow elevated in challenge. "Let's see what happens." 

"Do you take me for an idiot?" Brienne pulled even harder on the tether, causing the kingslayer to stumble toward the wagon. "In," she pointed into the barred carriage as he leveled a disappointed look at her. 

"I took you for a fighter, a man- pardon, woman of honor." His efforts to get a rise out of her remained fruitless. Did the man ever know when to quit? "Was I wrong? You're afraid." 

"Maybe one day we'll find out, kingslayer." Brienne seized him by the shoulder, pushed him inside, tossing the length of chain in behind him. 

"Is that the only insult you can hurl at me?" He pouted like a spoiled little boy as he sat down. Brienne secured the cage door, snubbing the kingslayer's petty wit. 

"I can think of no greater insult," she met his startling green eyes before turning away in revulsion. She remembered that some of King Renly's men bestowed on her the same title. Brienne, assuming his prattling finally silenced, walked around to check and secure the wagon. 

"What's your name?" His sudden interest confused her. The kingslayer mocked and teased but he never asked her about herself with sincerity. "I know you are named Brienne, what is your family name?" She disregarded him, convinced he was trying to play some game. "I'm Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, son of Tywin." 

"Brienne of Tarth." At her mumbled reply, he turned to watch her check the harness on the horse pulling the cage. 

"Tarth: Lord Selwyn Tarth is your father?" The personal nature of his questions caught her off guard. Unsure how to respond to his new tactic, Brienne chose not to. "It's a long way to Riverrun: might as well get to know one another. I didn't mean to give offense, my lady, forgive me." She would not trust his defeated tone, just another of his tricks. 

"Your crimes are past forgiveness, kingslayer." Brienne grasped the horse's snaffle rein and led the wagon to join King Robb's party. "You've harmed others: those you were sworn to protect. The weak, the innocent," Brienne let candid disgust permeate her statement. "And the king you swore a vow to protect." 

"That is why you hate me?" Jaime bellowed audibly over the turning of the wagon's wheels. "Kingslayer: a man without honor!" His laughing response lacked humor. "You've heard of wildfire?" Brienne paid him no heed, also overlooking the stares of the Northern and Riverlands soldiers in the camp. "The Mad King was obsessed with it," he continued, not waiting for a reply. 

"He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him," Jaime sighed. "Tell me," his mocking tone returned but it was somehow hollow. "If your precious king commanded you to kill dear Lord Selwyn. Then stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive. Would you have done it?" Brienne did not know what to make of his story, annoyed by the ring of truth to his words. 

"He ordered me to 'burn them all'. He kept saying it," Ser Jaime sounded dazed as he spoke and Brienne fought the urge to look at him. "I drove my sword into the king's back when he turned to flee." He chuckled again, a bitter sound. "That's where Ned Stark found me." 

"If this is true why didn't you tell anyone?" Even as she asked the quiet question, Brienne's instinct felt the kingslayer told an honest tale. "Why not tell Lord Stark?" Something about his voice, when he spoke the truth, made him seem less of a monster and more of a man. She spent her life trusting her gut: why did she only question her instinct about the kingslayer? 

"Stark?" He scoffed loudly, drawing the attention of the men packing the camp as they passed. "You think the honorable Ned Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me." His bitterness and rancor was familiar to Brienne, knowing well what unfair judgment felt like. "By what right does the wolf judge the lion?" There it was: his pride, his downfall. 

Both of them lapsed into silence, the squealing wheels and thud of the horse's hoofs on the ground played a sad song to fill the heavy air. Brienne felt no desire to waste any pity on the proud man but she did feel that she understood him better. The question remained: was understanding Jaime Lannister a good thing? 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/winter_horse/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179515417)

# Arya

She could not help smiling as she brushed their horse. It was so handsome - older, but strong and dependable - entirely white with a wavy mane. His name was Winter and Arya thought it was perfect, no need to change it. Gendry was on the other side of Winter and she glanced over the horse's posterior to see him grinning at her. He stroked a brush over the horse's snowy coat as he watched her. 

"You've yer horse, milady." Gendry bent to pick up the saddle and secured it on Winter's back. "Is it a grand adventure now?" She let out a mocking 'ha' sound but could not keep the genuine smile off her face. Why hide it? She always wanted a horse for this journey - they were going to make excellent time if they rode instead of walking. 

Wolfsbane had come back from hunting with a hare four times its size, Arya could admit it was making itself useful. She arranged the saddlebags over Winter's haunches and looked around to make sure Gendry wasn't watching before she opened the flap to check on the little weasel. As usual, it was sleeping peacefully, nestled in their spare clothing. The kit was normally only active during the night and early morning. 

The bull turned towards her and she quickly spun around to finish getting ready to go. Saddled and packed, they mounted Winter, she in front and him behind her. Arya took the reins, clicked her tongue, and gave a nudge with her heels. Winter knew just what to do, walking in a steady cadence. She leaned back against Gendry's warm chest, relaxing with a sigh - life was good. 

"This is nice," Arya tucked her forehead beneath his chin and relaxed into his arms encircling her waist. The chilled wind cooled her face, yet her body was comfortable surrounded by her bull. Since they left the Isle of Faces, Gendry had become freer with his affection. Whatever lingering reasons he had for restraining himself disappeared after the morning they left to continue this journey north. 

"It is," he agreed, hugging her closer and lowering his cheek to touch hers. It stunned Arya to realize that his sudden lack of restraint was making her uneasy. When he fought her every step of the way, she felt certain that she wished to give Gendry her maidenhead. Nervousness was not exactly how she would describe her mood, more like anxiety. Not unlike a pot that had the lid on too long and was near boiling over. 

"Though, I might enjoy riding the other way more." Her fingers tingled at the thought of sitting behind him, pressed flush against his broad back. Arya grew to appreciate his warm back during those chilly nights on the isle. She would hold around his middle and trace her fingers over the muscles of his stomach. 

"You mean: behind me, or you turned round to face me?" His soft question painted a picture that appealed to Arya. She had not thought about turning to face him - it was a tantalizing idea. 

"Both would be nice," she grinned wickedly at his pained groan as he buried his face into her neck. 

"Ugh, Arry." His words and lips were hot touching her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Arya's heart started beating faster as a warming sensation spread over her skin. "We should've stayed the night in the last village." Gendry's voice was husky but it was the least obvious indication of his arousal. In their time together, she learned all about cocks - not that there was much mystery to them. 

"That's a waste of good coin and you know it." She pretended to be unaffected but did not fool him. Arya gasped when he slipped a hand down to rest on her thigh, her womanhood fluttered in response. She ached to experience that wondrous explosive sensation she felt the last day on the isle. His other hand rose to cup her chin, tilting her face up and pressing a light kiss on her lips. 

"It's a fine use for coin," he murmured against her lips, nipping the bottom one, and drawing a gasp from her. "Can't think of a better use." Gendry's hand hooked behind her knee and pulled both of her legs over his thigh to cradle Arya in his arms. She dropped the reigns and slid her hands around his neck to kiss him back eagerly. They only broke apart when she realized Winter had stopped walking. 

"You're incorrigible," she scolded Gendry as she groped blindly for the reigns. When Arya had them in hand, he took them from her and twisted them round his wrist. She only let him take control because she refused to let go of him. 

"What's that mean?" Gendry curled one arm to hold her while guiding Winter with his other hand. He was a less skilled rider - but in all fairness, he was distracted. 

"You can't help yourself," she explained, wriggling in the saddle to push herself nearer to him. 

"That's rich," he scoffed a laugh, raising both eyebrows, "coming from you." Arya intended to wipe that smirk right off his face. She wound one arm around his shoulders and pulled herself up to lift her leg over his body. Gendry lowered his hand under her bottom to help settle her in his lap, sighing in satisfaction when she wrapped her arms around him. 

"This is better." She laced her fingers behind his neck and leaned backwards to grin up at him. "You might just be the Smith incarnate - this is the most brilliant idea ever thought up." Gendry's grip tightened on her leg as his eyes squeezed shut in a pained expression. 

"I'm starting to regret it," he groaned as he raised his eyes to peer over her head. "I can't pay attention to the road." His bared throat was tempting, making her hungry mouth water. Arya pulled herself up, licking the tip of her tongue along the length of his neck to whisper in his ear. 

"Forget the road." Arya smiled when she heard him inhale sharply. His hand jerked her towards him, bringing her womanhood flush against his hardness. Then it was her turn to gasp, stunned by the sudden rush of yearning coursing through her. Gendry cupped the nape of her neck and slanted her face up, his serious blue eyes piercing hers. For an instant, she thought something was wrong. 

Then his eyes fluttered closed as he barely brushed his lips over hers, withdrawing when she attempted to deepen the kiss. Arya whined in frustration and tried to pull herself up but Gendry arched forward to lean her back. He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, panting as his face hovered a breath's distance above hers. She was starving for his kiss, his denial only made the hunger more unbearable. 

Relief flooded through her when he pressed his lips to hers, yet it was soon replaced with a burning need to feel him closer. Arya released his neck to curl her hands under his arms to gain some leverage, curving her body against his. Gendry hovered over her mouth as he sat up, clutching her to his chest. She launched herself at him in an instant, kissing him before he could tease her again. 

He grunted, as if surprised that she attacked him with such viciousness. Whom did he think he was kissing? The low sound melted into something akin to a whine - begging. Pleading will not save you now - Arya daydreamed about pouncing on Gendry since they rose with the sun. All day she stared at his mouth when he smiled or frowned in concentration. She wondered if she would ever get used to the way he made her feel. 

Gendry embraced her as if she was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality and she might disappear at any moment. Arya would never go anywhere without her bull. He was more open in every way, letting her press into him, as close as she could get. He no longer used his strength to stop her - exactly what she yearned for, but she was still unprepared for how overwhelming he could be. 

Free to do as she pleased, Arya set her teeth on the soft flesh under the joint of his flexed jaw, tasting him with the tip of her tongue. She scraped her teeth along the smooth skin, causing Gendry to mutter a blasphemous curse. Her tongue and teeth devoured him, following the line of his jawbone and down his throat. Her pursuit was relentless, yet he was offering himself as willing prey. 

He moaned, arching his neck to expose his throat to her, digging his fingers into her waist. Arya disentangled her arms from around his body and shoved her hands into his hair, raking her nails along his scalp. Pulling him down roughly, she nipped at the bottom of his neck. Arya buried her face into the crook of his neck, her appetite for his flesh was not sated - she only craved more. She forced herself to return to his parted lips, mingling their ragged breaths. 

Gendry wrapped his palm behind the base of her head, dragging her mouth to his. His kiss was insistent, as if he never wanted to stop and she gripped him tighter - neither did she. He bent forward to wrap his arm around her hips, then rocked backwards to seat her atop his thighs. She growled when his hardness pushed against her womanhood, cursing their impeding clothes. 

Her tongue darted out to his swollen lip as she tugged his robe aside to slip a hand underneath - his hot skin demanded her touch. Gendry went still beneath her hands, her instincts screamed to drag him into some bushes to rip his clothes off. Halting her exploration, he pushed Arya's robe aside to smooth his palm over her ribs and cup her teat. A strangled cry tore from her throat, muffled by Gendry's tongue filling her mouth. 

The sensation made the prickling tingle between her legs pulse stronger. She almost killed him when his hand stopped its wondrous torture and then nearly sobbed in relief when he yanked on the laces of her breeches. Gods - finally! It seemed to take hours for his fumbling fingers to complete the task. Arya whined and dug her fingers into his shoulders, unable to speak a word to scold him. 

Her body froze although she wanted to drive her hips against his hesitant fingers as they brushed the soft curls between her legs. Lower, stupid! All her irritation disappeared the moment his cautious fingers touched the pulsing slick flesh of her womanhood. She melted against Gendry's body, relying completely on his hold to keep her from falling. Her only conscious thought - this was the best thing that ever happened to anybody - ever. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/smile/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179570891)

# Gendry

"That's one way to travel, innit?" A harsh voice yanked Gendry out of his happiness, jerking Arya's robe in place before he could even regret the interruption. His eyes snapped up to see two men riding towards them and he hid her face against his chest on instinct. Arry squirmed a bit but thankfully remained silent. 

"Oi, piss off." Gendry cocked his chin over his shoulder, trying to look tough. He hoped they couldn't see and Arya couldn't feel his body trembling. They weren't paying attention and this was the price they had to pay. 

"Hey," the skinnier of the two men eyed Arya in a way that made Gendry's blood boil. "We'll make it worth your while to let us have a go." 

"Last man who tried to touch my wife got a sword in his throat." It was safer to call her his 'wife', though he cringed as he said it. Men like these only saw women as possessions: the property of a man. It was more the other way around. The plumper man held out his hands like he didn't want a fight and the rude strangers passed by without another word. Gendry whooshed out a sigh of relief and relaxed his hand against Arya's head. "It's alright now, they're gone." 

"You didn't have to hide me," she pouted, her lips pink and swollen after being properly kissed for what could have been hours. It was careless of them to get so carried away, they weren't on some romantic adventure no matter how much they pretended. 

"Yes, I did," he wasn't going to argue the point. If those men saw her and found her pretty, they might not have taken no for an answer. Turning around, Gendry made sure the men were well out of sight before pulling Winter's reins to guide him into the woods. He held Arry's hand as she unsteadily slipped off the horse due to their odd position. In truth, it was a great idea: one of his best. Damn those bloody interfering bastards, he silently cursed and dismounted after her. 

"Maybe I should cut your hair short again," he regretted the words as soon as they were out. Sure, it was easier traveling with Arya if people thought she was a boy. But her hair was so pretty, grown out to her shoulders in soft dark waves. It framed her face and made her intense grey eyes stand out even more. 

"No," she shook her head in denial, much to his relief. "I don't mind if it's long or short but I want my mother to recognize me. I've changed so much since the last time I saw her and she would want my hair long." She leaned back on her heels to meet his eyes. "Can you understand?" He could, if he had a chance to meet his mother again he would want her to recognize him. 

"It's pretty longer anyway," he ruffled his fingers through her hair, laughing as she scowled and swatted him away. "I just think we should be careful, maybe avoid the main road." Gendry shuddered as a dark thought passed through his mind. "You don't understand what men would do to you." His mind resisted the distant memory that surfaced: the dark alley, a tear-stained face, pleading blue eyes, the fear he felt, and his feet running away. Those blue eyes turned dark grey in his mind's eye. 

"I know," her voice was distracted as she was busy unpacking the horse. "They would try to rape me - I would never let that happen." The calm way she spoke was so at odds with his building fear. 

"You say you know what it means but you don't," he snapped at her but regretted his tone straight away. "I couldn't live on if I saw that happen to you," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. 

"You're wrong when you say I don't understand." Arry sighed a humorless laugh. "My entire life people have tried to force me to do things I don't want to do. I never let them, not even my parents." She raised her hands to her hips and cocked her head to the side. "I've always been able to see things that they couldn't." 

"It's not the same-" 

"Why should girls be unable to defend themselves - while men are raised from boyhood to fight?" Arya held out one hand questioningly, shrugging her shoulders. "Why should women wear cumbersome clothing just to look good to men?" Arya walked to his side and wrapped her hands around his wrist to gain his full attention. "You are like me - you see the way things work and you don't like it." 

"That don't make me feel better." Gendry sucked in a deep breath as he pushed his fear deep into his gut where it churned uncomfortably. "It's going to be harder to keep you safe now that we're on the main road." She wore her usual haughty expression and he couldn't help tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 

"I'm not trying to soothe you," she scoffed and rolled her eyes. "I'm telling you why I love you." A buzzing sound was in his ears so Gendry rubbed his forefinger in his earhole and shook his head. 

"What'd ye just say?" Gendry stared down at Arya's calm expression. "You said: you love me." 

"Of course I do." She narrowed her brows and looked at him as if he was stupid before eyeing the treetops and putting a finger to her lips. "Oh, did I not say so before? I'm sure I did." 

"You didn't," he wheezed, all of a sudden woozy, like he was standing over a hot forge too long. 

"I can take it back," Arya eyed him warily then started to take a step away from him. Gendry reached out and grabbed both of her shoulders. 

"No!" He lowered his voice to a proper level. "No, don't take it back. I," Gendry took a deep breath and hung his head. "I love you too, Arry." 

"That's fairly obvious." She gracefully spun out of his loose grasp to walk toward their saddlebags. 

"Hey!" He caught her, wrapping an arm around the front of her chest to pin her back to him. "Say it again," he whispered in her ear. 

"I love you, Gendry." Arya tilted her head up to smirk at him, patting his arm to let her go. "We should keep to the main road - the land is too cut up by rivers and forests and we could end up days off course." She took out the sack of provisions from their bags and handed him some dried meat. "We are so close now - it's less dangerous to travel as fast as we can." She walked over to a nearby tree to sit at the base. 

"I'll follow your lead, Arry." Gendry sat down next to her, chewing on the hard salted meat. "Always." 

"As it should be." She smiled at him in a sweet way that he wasn't used to, it stole his breath for a moment. Arya reached out and patted her thigh. "You sleep first, I'll keep watch. We should leave in a few hours." Gendry could only nod mutely, turning around to lay down and rest his head on her lap. His last sight before falling asleep was her lovely smile that was only for him. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/siege/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179576983)

# Sansa

Fear prickled her stomach and she longed to join the other ladies in Maegor's Holdfast, yet the bastard king summoned her outside the throne room. The imp intercepted her first and she was barely aware of her own 'chirping' as she noticed Joffrey's approach... followed by Sandor. 

"Sansa come," Joff called her like a dog and she obeyed accordingly. "Your King rides forth to battle - you should see him off with a kiss." He unsheathed his blade, holding out the length of steel close to her bowed face. "My new blade - Hearteater, I've named it. Kiss it." She leaned to brush her lips against the cold metal and he watched with lecherous approval. "You'll kiss it again - when I return - and taste my uncle's blood." 

"I pray those who seek to end your reign find their deaths by your sword, Your Grace." Sansa must at all times keep her head lower than his, never meet his eye, and always smile. She had memorized the steps to this dance. The temptation to look over Joffrey's shoulder at Sandor Clegane was near unbearable. A dark thought flitted through her mind... This possibly will be the last time she saw him. 

"What good are the prayers of a stupid girl?" The bastard king sheathed his sword and Sansa used the moment to spy a glimpse of Sandor. He wore his usual unreadable expression, blank eyes staring ahead. "Your brother's turn will come," Joffrey sneered, "then you can lick his blood off Hearteater, too." His arrogant smirk made Sansa sick but she smiled as if he was offering her a plate of lemoncakes. 

"My brother Robb is a traitor and a pretender..." Sansa darted her tongue out to lick her upper lip before she peered through her lashes at Joffrey. "I would gladly lick his blood from your sword, Your Grace." Her lips were still cold from kissing Hearteater, yet her heart turned even icier from the lust that flashed across his features. Putting on false smiles for the king was becoming easier, yet she felt even more dissatisfied... Survival was hardly a worthy ambition. 

Joffrey walked away without another word and his men followed after, Sansa remained unable to meet Sandor's gaze even once. She simply watched him walk away while resisting the mad urge to call out to him. A torrent of emotions, that even she did not fully understand, waged a war within her heart... as sure as a conflict would wage outside. 

"Some of those boys will never come back." Shae seemed to echo Sansa's worries. Her heart constricted, reminded of the men and boys who would die in combat. 'Warrior, give Sandor the strength to survive this siege... I still have need of his protection. Most gracious Mother, she whose compassion reaches every corner of the realm and beyond! Hear me, your faithful daughter, as I call out to you in this desperate time of need.' 

'We are facing a powerful force that threatens to bring destruction to us all. I call upon your greatness to bring a swift end to this terror. Hear me, oh merciful Mother, as I pray for all those who face certain danger! Give them hope and comfort if their lives should end. I pray for those who will lose their loved ones. Protect your sons and have mercy on us all... Forgive me, for not including my betrothed in this prayer.' 

"Joffrey will," Sansa's top lip curled as she glared at the bastard king's retreating form. "The worst ones always live." 'Old Gods of my father... punish whoever thinks to rule over the North from a southron throne. Let the stags and lions destroy themselves and liberate all seven kingdoms from their games.' 

"Shh." Shae moved beside her and leaned close to take her arm in hand. "Come, My Lady." The handmaiden steered Sansa in the right direction, then walked a step behind her as they made their way to Maegor's Holdfast. She was still seething from the encounter! That bastard king takes too much pleasure in mocking a Stark of Winterfell... we shall see who has the last laugh. "You still wear your anger, my lady." At the handmaiden's hushed admonishment, Sansa fixed her expression. 

Inside Maegor's Holdfast, the ladies of court gathered around, a few softly cried while most were murmuring prayers. The mothers hushed their children and infants, yet the air hung tense and heavy, even babies must feel it. Queen Cersei sat in the middle of the scene, seeming almost to enjoy the palpable fear in the room. 

"I don't know why she wants me here," she hissed to Shae, casting a glance in the Queen's direction. "She's always saying how stupid I am... she hates me." 

"Maybe she hates you less than she hates everyone else," the handmaiden's reasoning did not make any sense. If they Queen liked Sansa more she tolerated others, why was she so cruel? 

"I doubt it," Sansa shook her head, too nervous from the rising sounds outside to think clearly. 

"Maybe she's jealous of you." Shae's words startled her, causing Sansa's stomach to tighten uncomfortably. 

"Why would she be jealous?" The question went unanswered as the queen noticed her. 

"Sansa," Cersei called and Sansa straightened her spine before walking over to the queen. "I was wondering where our little dove had flown. You look pale, child. Is your red flower still blooming?" Sansa admitted that her moonblood was still ailing her with a nod. "Fitting, isn't it? The men will bleed out there and you will bleed in here." She turned to address the servant beside her. "Pour Lady Sansa some wine." 

"Thank you, Your Grace." At first, Sansa wished to decline but Shae's words made her curious about the queen. The woman narrowed her jewel-like eyes, likely suspicious of Sansa's compliant nature. She took a deep gulp of the wine and did her best to appear a silly terrified girl. "What's he doing here?" Sansa warily eyed Ser Ilyn Payne, trying to redirect the queen's attention. 

"Ser Ilyn? He's here to defend us." The queen's chuckle lacked humor and Sansa tore her eyes away from the frightening man. He had terrified her from the start, even before he killed her father. When she was queen, Sansa would find a way to be rid of the man. "When the axes smash down those doors, you may be glad to have him." 

"But we have guards to defend us," Sansa observed the way queen Cersei scrutinized her goblet so she continued to take tiny sips. In all honesty, it was not much of an act to play a frightened child because she felt truly terrified. 

"Guards we have paid," the woman scoffed, marring the loveliness of her face with a nasty scowl. "Should the city fall, they'll be the first ones out of the doors." Just then a man entered to tell the queen of several servants trying to sneak away with a stolen horse and some gold cups. She ordered Ser Ilyn to see their heads on spikes before refocusing her attention on Sansa. "The only way to keep the smallfolk loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy." 

"You said he was here to protect us." Sansa watched Ser Payne leave, both relieved and even more afraid. 

"He is," the queen chuckled. "Traitors are a danger to us all." Glittering green flames burned in Cersei's eyes as she leveled them on Sansa. The breath stole from her lungs as she saw a flash of madness and calculation. Then the moment was over, and the intoxicated mocking smile was back on the woman's lips. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/queen/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179412244)

# Cersei

The stupid little dove was dipping her beak into the wine - not drinking near enough. Did she not realize there was a war on? Inebriation is the single best way to deal with a siege. Cersei ordered the servant to keep filling Sansa's cup. The girl tried to decline more wine but acquiesced under her harsh queenly stare. Good - it took her twenty years to perfect that look and it served her well. 

"Little dove," she cooed at the girl. "You must be grateful to have finally received your moonblood, at your age. Some women never do - although I think they might be the lucky ones." Cersei drained the rest of her wine - finally having a bit of fun on this dreary night. "Septahood always did seem a bit dull, though." Regarding Sansa's pale face, Cersei was gratified she no longer resembled a petrified child. 

"Yes," Sansa gave a dutiful nod and took another small sip from her cup. "Now I can wed Joffrey and bear his children." 

"Oh, shut up, you little fool." Cersei irritably held out her emptied goblet as a servant scurried to fill it. Witless thing, did Sansa think the Queen was so easy to fool? At least the girl was pretty, that might serve her well if she learned to use it. "If it were anyone else outside those gates, I might have hoped for a private audience. But - this - is Stannis Baratheon. I'd have a better chance of seducing his horse." 

"Ah," the girl gasped oh so charmingly. 

"Have I shocked you, little dove?" Cersei snorted a laugh at young Sansa's stricken expression. "Tears aren't a woman's only weapon - the best one's between your legs - learn how to use it." She held up her cup in imitation of a toast. "Drink!" It was not a request but the girl barely acquiesced. "Not like that - drink, girl." Such a biddable child, she would be easy to control when she became queen. 

"And if the city should fall?" Sansa's bottom lip trembled and tears shone in her eyes but Cersei hated her naivety. How did she manage to hold onto a scrap of innocence? Joffrey would beat it out of her soon enough. That thought both pacified and angered her even further. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Cersei laughed as the girl whipped her head from side to side in childish denial. "The Red Keep should hold for a time, long enough for me to go to the walls and yield to Lord Stannis in person. Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked?" Sansa's responded with a doe-eyed stare, face so pale Cersei wondered if the girl was close to fainting. "No, you wouldn't, would you?" 

"If the city falls, this flock of frightened hens should be in for a good bit of rape." Cersei smirked as the little dove drained her wine and quivered as she held out her goblet for more. "Half of them will have bastards in their bellies come the morning. You'll be glad of your red flower then. When a man's blood is up, anything with tits looks good. A precious thing like you will look very, very good - a slice of cake just waiting to be eaten." 

"When I told you about Ser Ilyn earlier, I lied." Cersei leaned forward, tilting her head to the side and keeping her voice honey-sweet. "Do you want to hear the truth - you want to know why he's really here?" The little dove's eyes grew wide, rimming the blue sapphire irises with white. "He's here for us. Stannis may take the city, he may take the throne, but he will not take us alive." 

"Then we must pray for Joffrey to lead his men to victory." Sansa's trembling voice and insipid words frustrated Cersei to no end. 

"Pray?" She sighed through her gritted teeth. "Prayer does not win wars - you best remember that if you ever hope to become Queen. I had a plan for this attack. No one wanted my opinion - my wretched brother thinks he is cleverer than I am because he has a cock - though a tiny one. I'm the bloody Queen!" She calmed herself with another long gulp of sweet wine. "Queen 'Regent' - you'll be the Queen soon, little dove." 

The girl appeared terrified by her words, she should be afraid. Fear makes us stronger - it feeds our anger and reminds us what we are capable of when cornered. Nevertheless, at that age Cersei was the same, with stars in her eyes and dreams of knights and true love. Of course, her true love had always been Jaime, right from the start, but their love could never be out in the open. Little Sansa was lucky she had no one to love, for whom she would act the fool and risk everything. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/curtsey/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179518208)

# Shae

The queen was bleating like a bianor, how she was 'sold to some stranger like a horse to be ridden whenever he desired'. Oh, poor rich lady, she had to give her cunt to one man to keep her belly full and soft skin covered in silks. Stupid bitch, what does she know of suffering? Shae was proud of her lady - the zoklaitsos took regular sips of wine while keeping wide eyes on the queen. 

No matter what she thought of her, Queen Cersei was a strong woman - a dangerous enemy to have, or a valuable ally. Though cruel, the things she told Lady Sansa were all true. Luckily, her lady knew how to loosen the woman's tongue without instruction. Someday soon, the girl will not need Shae's help, by then they would have formed an unbreakable bond. Shae expected life would get much easier for the new queen's favorite handmaiden. 

She fought back a smile as she viewed the scene, her lady cowering over her cup as the lioness circled her prey. It never once occurred to the stupid woman that she shouldn't be so free with her advice to an enemy. No, she did not even see Lady Sansa as a threat - a mistake to be taken advantage of. 

"I don't think I know this one," the queen took a sudden interest in Shae. "Pretty," she purred and ran her eyes over her body with a hint of desire. Shae performed what she hoped was an acceptable bow. "That's the worst curtsy I've ever seen," the queen laughed as she stood. "Here, it's not difficult." Queen Cersei gracefully dipped. "I mastered it when I was four - straighten your back and bend." 

"Better," the litse woman approved as Shae copied her example. "You learn fast. How long have you been in Lady Sansa's service?" 

"A few weeks," she kept her answer vague, her head bowed, and hands clasped. "Your Grace." 

"When did you leave Lorath?" Queen Cersei was more observant than Shae realized. "I had a Lorathi handmaiden once, but she was a nobleman's daughter - you are not." The woman appraised her with one eyebrow raised. Did the lioness view Shae as fresh prey? "When did you come to Westeros?" 

"Your Grace?" Shae's mind raced to think of a way to change the subject. 

"From Lorathi commoner - to the Red Keep - all without learning how to curtsy." The queen showed her teeth using a false smile. "I imagine that's a very interesting story. What's your name?" 

"Shae, Your Grace." She tried to say as few words as possible, hoping to bore the woman. 

"Tell us a story, Shae." It was a clear command, not to be refused. Shae took a deep breath and tried to make herself as uninteresting as possible. 

"When I was thirteen, I-" All of a sudden, the door burst open and a young knight rushed inside the chamber. 

"Your Grace!" The pretty young man approached the queen. "The Imp has set the river afire. Hundreds of ships are burning, maybe more. Stannis's fleet destroyed..." the man's voice lowered and Shae strained to hear. "But his troops have landed outside the city walls." Shae's ears burned from the news of Tyrion. Her kelioitsos was strong, and he would survive this conflict. 

The queen and the young knight argued about the king but Shae's mind was plotting how to get herself and Lady Sansa out of the Red Keep. If the battle was lost then there was no reason to stay in King's Landing. She had to see her little lion once more, try to convince him to come with her. They could take her haedar away from this madness - they could be safe and together, a decent life. 

The lioness struck the knight's side, making the man cry out in pain. Then the Queen stormed out of the room, leaving behind the group of panicking ladies. Lady Sansa rose from her seat to stand in the middle of the chamber. Shae saw raw strength when her lady took control of the room, every voice hushed as all eyes turned to listen. 

"Don't be afraid." Lady Sansa assured them with remarkable calm, gone was the trembling fear she showed Queen Cersei. "The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place we can be. Joffrey's not hurt, he's fighting bravely... his knights have rallied behind him. They will save the city. Shall we sing a hymn?" The girl led the group into a hymn and Shae took the opportunity to grasp her lady's arm. 

"You must go," Shae kept her words hushed but insistent. "Run to your chamber and bar your door. Stannis won't hurt you." She slid her eyes to the royal executioner. "This one will." Lady Sansa's eyes widened in fear and understanding. 

"Come with me," the girl begged in a hushed whisper. Her lady did truly care for her and Shae's heart warmed with the knowledge. 

"I need to say goodbye to someone." If Tyrion would not come with her then she would have to leave him behind - she knew where he kept a stash of gold in his chamber. Shae looked around to make sure no one was watching as she brought her lady towards the door. 

"The queen said they'd rape everyone." Lady Sansa's voice quavered with fear but Shae only smirked at her. She pulled aside the skirt of her dress to reveal her thigh and the sharp dirk strapped to it. 

"No one is raping me," Shae fiercely reassured her lady. "Go." She pushed the girl out of the door and pointed down the hall. "Run." Lady Sansa did as her handmaiden bid, going around a corner towards her chamber. Tyrion's chamber was in the other direction and Shae took off running towards it. She should pack to leave this place - then she would find her little lion. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/blackwater/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179564985)

# Sandor

Everything was burning. The war raged around him - bloodshed and death - shrieks of the dying - scorching and roasting - his feet went where they wanted. Heavy boots dragged across the ground. Metal scraping the stone steps - sounds like the hound's voice. Who's the hound? He's a monster - Sandor's flesh was blistering - it hurts, please help me, I'm burning! 

The numb side of his wrecked face felt nothing, even when cut and bleeding, yet it scorched as Gregor held him against the fire. He awoke with a start and watched the slim figure pass by, unaware of his presence. The fire was gone, left on the battlefield - somehow, he was in the little bird's bed. She walked across the room, stopped in front of a small desk, and picked something up to hold it against her chest. 

"The lady is starting to panic," he tried to speak softly but that never worked like he hoped. She gasped and spun around, revealing that the thing in her hand was a doll - still just a girl after all. 

"What are you doing here?" The question rushed out of her mouth on a shaky breath. Why did he come here? Oh right, he had hazy thoughts of being her fucking hero. 

"Not here for long," he told her. "I'm going." 

"Where?" Her voice might have borne some disappointment. Would she come with him if he asked? Did she trust him to save her - or just to fuck a child into her? 

"Someplace that isn't burning." Sandor stood up and approached her slowly, stopping when she took a step back. He must look a sight - all covered in the blood and guts of other men. "North, might be." He turned his bad side away from her and kept his voice low. "Could be." 

"What about the king?" Was she deaf? He just told her - he didn't care to stick around and serve this 'king' anymore! 

"He can die just fine on his own," he snarled, earning another retreating step from the lady. Sandor let out a frustrated sigh and pressed his fingers to his forehead. "I can take you with me - take you to Winterfell - I'll keep you safe. Do you want to go home?" His offer to take her home earned him nothing but her pretty mouth gaping like a fish. Silly girl was too stupid to trust the one person who'd save her. 

Fuck her then - she could die with all the other noble cunts for all he cared - he'd regret it later when everything wasn't ablaze. Lady Sansa Stark was strong anyway, might be she never needed his help in the first place, and could be she'd get stronger once rid of him. Sandor had one foot out the door, knowing he was giving her up forever. They'd never see each other again - it was for the best. 

"Sandor," she called quietly. For the first time, the lady forgot her buggering courteous chirping, and she called his name. Every time he'd berated her, bullied her - for calling him 'ser' and 'my lord' - he wanted to hear her say his name. Bugger the seven hells, he was already in his own fiery torment, and he would not lie to himself any longer. There was no mistaking who his master was and a hound would die for his master. 

"You want to come then?" He expected his voice to sound as fierce as it always did but was surprised to hear the weary whisper that came from him. This is what she did to him, made him soft, and turned his mind to long for softer things. 

"No," her reply was quiet and tremulous. "I want you to rejoin the fight and defeat Stannis' army." 

"Is that all?" Sandor sneered and turned to face her, struck mute by her fragile beauty and the fresh tears streaming down her face. She was looking at him so expectantly, like he was a true noble knight from a fucking song. Bugger that, he was a scarred rabid dog - and hers to command. 

"I could die at any moment," her voice was so quiet but her words held his full attention. "Tonight, during the siege. Or later... I could lose my head, or simply fall ill. Or I could finally decide to jump out of my bedroom window." Her bitter tone held a truthful note that Sandor recognized. Sometimes he rode onto the battleground, hoping to meet someone who could cut him down in glorious battle. There are worse ways to go. 

"If I rejoin the battle, I'll not survive no matter who wins." Sandor spoke bluntly, but it was no argument. His bloodlust was already rising, mentally preparing himself to return to the fray. 

"No!" Her voice ceased its bloody tremor and rang with queenly confidence. "You will not die... you will be victorious and return to my side!" Sandor threw his head back and barked with laughter, damn but the lady knew how to give orders. She stared at him with startled shimmering eyes as he closed the distance between. He tugged her into his grasp and this time she didn't struggle one bit. 

"Then, my lady," he growled. "I'll take a favor from you - for luck." Before she could chirp a reply, Sandor grabbed her shoulders and crushed his mouth onto her parted lips. Sansa tasted of wine and sweet innocence. The hound hungrily devoured her, biting his way down her lips - her haughty chin - and along her neck. A soft sound escaped her throat as he nipped the pale flesh like a starving beast. 

Sansa curled her hands up around his shoulders and leaned into his touch - it was enough. Stealing a kiss from the lady was worth it, now he'd go die for her like a good dog. Sandor released her, deciding not to dwell on the fact she was clutching his arms with her tiny hands. Her face flushed and her hair mussed, the little bird never looked more beautiful. A fine last sight to behold before meeting the Stranger. 

Without another word, he left - back to the carnage and killing. That was his talent, not kissing pretty maidens. Sandor couldn't face the green flames again, so he made his way to the screams coming from the direction of the throne room. That's where Stannis would be, probably already seating his arse in that buggering iron throne. The smell of blood and fear was overpowering as he ran towards the sounds of fighting. 

The hound roared as he swung his broadsword to cut down a running Baratheon soldier. The blood that splattered his face was warm and tasted metallic. Tywin Lannister was breaking through the enemy army, driving their declining forces towards him. Sandor bellowed a battle cry as he cut down each escaping man he passed. The old lion should recognize who was helping him finish off these cowards. 

Hurdling amongst the fleeing opponents, Sandor felled three more men - all meat to a butcher. The remaining enemy soldiers were shitting themselves like trapped rats. The old lion showed no mercy, cutting down any man who dared to cross swords with him. Finally they met, both men leaving a trail of gore in their wake. Sandor sliced his knife across the neck of the last man who had fallen to his knees and begged for mercy. 

Fuck that, anyone who raised a sword against him - or his little bird - deserved no mercy and would get none. Seven hells, that girl intruded on his thoughts whenever it damn well pleased her. The Lannister patriarch gave Sandor a nod of approval, his serious expression spattered with flecks of red. He entered the throne room like he owned the place. Oh right, Sandor rolled his eyes when he saw Cersei and the prince on the iron throne, the old lion did own this place. 

The frightened lioness clutched her cub to her breast as she scurried after her father to check on the king. Sandor followed, knowing his fate was already sealed. His absence from the battlefield would have been reported to the king right away, and Joff didn't care much for forgiveness. The brat was sitting in his room, surrounded by his Kingsguard, and acting like he'd defended against the siege single-handedly. 

"I never thought you would turn craven, dog." A sneer twisted the boy's handsome face, yet he actually sounded a bit let down. Gods fuck him! Did the boy really have some fondness for his dog? Sandor kneeled right quick before his liege, knowing that if the king was in a foul mood then his head was already forfeit. He pictured Sansa looking up at his ugly bloated head mounted on the wall. 

"Your Grace, I was a coward to run from the flames - I rejoined the fight as soon as I found my balls." Luckily, the little shit enjoyed his dog's foul mouth, even if his mother sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. Joffrey chuckled and stood in front of his dog, hands on hips and an amused smirk in place. That familiar expression calmed Sandor's mind - he never took anything the spoiled brat did as a kindness, but he'd live. 

"I do not think a king should show mercy to a coward," the boy's voice dripped with arrogance. "Therefore, I order Ser Meryn to take the hound to the dungeon. Keep him there until he understands I am not being merciful by sparing his life." Sandor did not argue or struggle as two of the Kingsguard escorted him out of the room. Only by living can he serve Lady Sansa - now that he had a mind to do so - with any luck, she'd not forget him as he rots in a dark hole. 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/shadows/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=179498239)

# Theon

The city after the siege seemed eerily unchanged, a few new orphans and widows but life goes on. Theon and Ser Rodrick strolled through the market in the early morning. Merchants setting out their wares tried to coax every passerby into buying. A dirty little boy approached Ser Cassel and handed him a slip of paper. The knight grimaced as he read the parchment before returning it to the child. 

The lad balled the paper and swallowed it before waving for them to follow him. Cassel grunted and indicated they would follow the lad, not giving Theon an opening to question why. They turned into a narrow alleyway where the youth approached a door and knocked twice, then once, then two slow raps. The door opened and the boy indicated they should enter. 

"You have made too many inquiries of late, Ser Rodrick Cassel." A man sat indoors, wearing simple clothes with a hood hiding his face and hands folded in his lap. "You've been noticed." Ser Cassel merely chuckled and joined the hooded figure at a small table. Theon followed suit, feeling nervous when the door closed behind them: which made him angry. He was about to berate the mysterious man and demand to know who he was but the old knight beat him to it. 

"Aye, and I know you as well, Varys." At Rodrick's words, the man lowered his hood to reveal a round bald head and smiling face. "Tell me what you want then." Theon glowered at the strange little man, still nervous and growing more irritated. 

"Oh no, you misunderstand." Varys' agreeable smile made Theon's skin crawl. "I am here to help you." His smile slipped as he tilted his head with exaggerated shame. "As I tried to help your noble liege lord." 

"Helped him?" Theon scoffed, unable to keep his tongue any longer. "Exactly how'd you-" 

"Hush, lad," Ser Cassel chastised him before readdressing Varys. "My lord is gone, but his children are still mine to protect." He leaned forward on one forearm and stared the soft man down. "We've heard not a word of Lady Arya." 

"And neither has anyone else," Varys sighed as if distressed and overlapped his forearms to cup his elbows in his hands. "The girl disappeared on the day her father died. I would see both girls safely delivered into your hands if I was able... however, I thought of a better way." He raised a questioning eyebrow at Ser Cassel who nodded for him to continue. 

"An arrangement could be made to marry Lady Sansa to Loras Tyrell and send her to Highgarden, where she will be out of harm's way." At Varys' worrisome words, Theon's stomach clenched and knotted with fury. On the journey south, he and Cassel heard rumors about Sansa's treatment at the Lannister's hands. One man claimed to hear that the king had her stripped full naked and flogged in court! "You would be able to accompany her there to watch over her." 

"My King sent me here to save his sisters," Rodrick shook his head and puffed out a weary breath. "Not to arrange marriages." 

"Not to pillowbiting cunts like Loras Tyrell!" Theon glared at the doughy man sitting across the small table, wanting to punch his moony face. 

"Shut your damned mouth." Ser Cassel used the tone that Theon learned he could not debate. "I must get a message to King Robb-" 

"I can assist with that." Varys stooped his head in mockery of meekness. 

"We can't trust him, Ser Rodrick." Theon tore his eyes off the sneaky man and turned to his companion. "He could be working for Joffrey, or the queen." 

"Could be," Ser Cassel agreed and leveled his eyes on the man before him. "What'd you have to say?" He cocked his chin at Varys. "Why should I trust you?" 

"Because I did try to help Lord Stark, and I regret that I could not save him." The man smiled sadly and dropped his gaze on the tabletop. "I found him one of the noblest men I've ever known, and his children are innocent of any wrongdoing. I harbor a particular distaste for the mistreatment of children. I would like to save Lady Sansa if I can... she has a certain quality which inspires unlikely heroism." He chuckled softly, seeming to be enjoying a private joke. 

"You want to save a fair maiden?" Rodrick crossed his arms over his barreled chest and raised a dubious eyebrow at the other man. "Is that all?" 

"Is there any nobler quest?" The smile vanished from Varys' lips, replaced by a hard and serious expression. "No, Ser Cassel, that is not 'all'. I am of the opinion... that we must keep Robb Stark's eldest heir out of the lion's claws." Some silent message passed between the two men's eyes before Ser Rodrik inclined his whiskered chin in agreement. 

"We share a goal then." Rodrik rose to stand over the much smaller man, large hands fisted at his sides. "If you betray us, I'll gut you myself." The man appeared submissive but he didn't cower under the warrior's stare. 

"Threats are not needed, ser." Varys smiled yet again, his serious expression gone as soon as it came. "I do what I must for the good of the realm." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'Blackwater' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin. 
> 
> Well... last week was just a little bit horrible. The Cold of Christmas Past finally came to disturb me, instead of just flitting in and out with random fevers and an intermittent sore throat. So, Earl Grey and I got comfortable on the couch and I watched the last two seasons of 'Arrow'. Mmmm... Colton Haynes - the *real* reason I stopped watching 'Teen Wolf'. Oh, who am I kidding: once Michael Hogan was off, I was done. And let's just get real with it: gumihos can stay in my k-dramas, komapsumnida.
> 
> How did I just go on a 'Teen Wolf' diatribe? Meh... I am what I am. No, but seriously - go watch 'My Girlfriend is a Gumiho' - RIGHT NOW!!! (https://www.viki.com/tv/956c-my-girlfriend-is-a-gumiho)


	12. Truth, Lies, and Offers

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/acorn_hall/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180726823)

# Gendry

The sun rose over Acorn Hall's stone battlements, casting a shadow over the front of the structure and its gate. Gendry led Winter as Arya rode up to the gate, shielding his eyes from the sunrise to peer up at the top of the wall. He told Arry they should take more time to make a plan but she was sure of this lord's loyalty to her Tully grandfather. 

"Who goes there?" A man yelled down at them from the wall, his unfriendly manner knotted Gendry's stomach. Hopefully Arry knew what in the seven hells she was doing. 

"I have a message for your lord." Arya used a different voice when she played the lady: the same tone she used when she didn't want to argue, but fancier. 

"My Lord is leaving to meet King Robb in Riverrun today," he informed them unkindly. "He has no time for the likes of you." Gendry peeked at Arya, seeing her jaw tense: he could probably hear her teeth grinding together if he still sat behind her. Hang on a bloody moment! Did he say 'king'? No, that couldn't be right.

"My message is urgent and from Robb Stark himself!" Arya's irritated tone made Gendry duck his head to hide a grin: leave it to Arry to try to intimidate someone a hundred feet taller. When he looked up at the battlements again, the man had already left and stayed away for a long while. He wanted to tell Arya they should give up trying to get help from this lord and keep going, they were doing all right on their own. 

"Give me your message," the man returned, "and I will pass it on to My Lord." 

"This message is for Lord Theomar Smallwood's ears alone." Arya held firm, not wavering an inch, and somehow succeeded in staring down at a man atop a keep's battlements. Without another word, the man left again and Gendry expected a curt dismissal upon his return. They more resembled two war orphans who stole some holy man's clothes than messengers. 

"Enter!" The gates of the keep opened and the man from the wall walked out to greet them. Arya slid down from atop Winter and approached the man warily, her hand resting on needle's hilt. "Hold out your arms," he commanded and she scowled but obeyed. The man's eyes roamed over her, settling hard on needle. "I'll be taking that or else your never getting through that gate." 

"Fine," she grumbled as she loosened her sword belt. "But as soon as your lord knows I am no threat - I want it back." Arya handed the man her weapon and he repeated the procedure with Gendry, who gave up the small knife he carried. Now that they were properly defenseless, the man led them towards the massive wooden keep. A stable boy took Winter before they went inside and the man directed them to an oak door on the second level. 

"My Lord," the man knocked as he called out. A voice from within bid them to enter and their escort swung the door open with a loud creak. "Here are the riders who were at your gate." The dark-haired and bearded lord sat behind a large desk, his elbows resting on it and hands folded. His index fingers formed a tower and pressed against his pursed lips as he observed them. Arya turned to Gendry, giving him a serious look before casting her eyes down the hallway. 

"Wait for me," she ordered, and Gendry always did what Arry said, even when it made him sick with worry. The knot in his stomach tensed even more as the heavy door closed between them.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/wait/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180872280)

# Arya

"Come in," the lord's voice was pleasant enough, though the man was a bit unremarkable. He gestured for Arya to sit in a chair on the opposite side of the desk he sat behind. "My man tells me you have a message." At most, Lord Smallwood's tone betrayed a casual amusement, indicating disbelief. 

"Lord Smallwood, forgive my appearance," she stayed standing and waved over her bedraggled robe. "If it pleases you, may we speak alone for a few moments?" The lord elevated an eyebrow, thin lips smirking at her before turning to his guard to dismiss the man with a nod. When Arya heard the door close behind her, she continued. 

"I have traveled a great distance - all in the attempt to return to my family." She inhaled a shaky breath. "I am Arya Stark of Winterfell," the words rushed out of her mouth but he clearly understood them. The disrespectful expression fell from his face, replaced with shock. Lord Smallwood's mouth hung open as he gave her an additional appraisal, narrowing his dull brown eyes as he examined her. 

"Arya Stark?" He sounded dazed when he finally found his tongue - good, that meant he might believe her. "You do have the look of Ned Stark, that solemn expression." He shook his head, reluctant to accept her claim as true. "It's said Arya Stark is a prisoner of the Lannisters." 

"I escaped, my lord." Arya had practiced in her head what she planned to say many times but her heart pounded and her hands felt sweaty. "With help from a member of the Night's Watch who was recruiting in King's Landing. I have no proof to support my claim." She straightened her spine, straining to hold herself in the position her Septa and mother trained into her and took another deep breath. 

"Acorn Hall is the seat of House Smallwood in the Riverlands. Your sigil is six brown acorns on yellow. This keep is located southeast of Riverrun, northeast of Pinkmaiden, north of Stoney Sept, and south of High Heart. House Smallwood is sworn to House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest. Lord Laryl Vance holds that seat - their sigil is a black dragon on white, two golden eyes in a golden ring on black. Should I go on to house Tully?" 

"No, that's quite enough," the lord smiled again, amused by her performance, which made her want to punch his smug face for making her act like a lady. "It is easy enough to see past the grime of travel to the highborn lady underneath." She fought not to curl her lip in disgust as the simpering Lord Smallwood rose to walk to her side and bow. "I am honored to meet you, Princess Arya." 

"Princess?" The title stunned her before she remembered what the man on the wall called Robb. "I heard your man call my brother a king?" 

"You do not know?" The lord's amused smile returned. "I suppose one does not hear much political gossip while on the run? Your brother's bannermen have named him King in the North. He seeks to succeed the North and the Riverlands from the Seven Kingdoms." This was all too much to take in and she needed to stay focused on securing aid from this lord.

"My Lord, if you trust me, will you help me?" Her question went unanswered for a time - Lord Smallwood assessed Arya, seeming to consider his price. "I only need provisions to continue my journey to Riverrun," she fought to keep from begging. "Game has been scarce as of late and my traveling companion and I have lived off dry meat for weeks." 

"Ah," he touched his chin and stared upward with a faraway look. "I remember living much the same during Robert's Rebellion." Lord Smallwood appraised her again with a light chuckle. "It's no way for a lady to live." 

"My lord," she gave a small chuckle herself, hoping to build some comradery with the man. "Forgive me for arguing - but it is no way for anyone to live." 

"You have the right of it." Lord Smallwood laughed for true, holding his chest to calm his mirth. "Now, about your traveling companion." Arya's heart sunk into her stomach, she hoped to avoid this line of questioning. Things on the isle were freer - at home, her bond with Gendry defied all the rules of proper society. "I would like to speak with him alone." 

"My lord?" Arya, baffled by his request, simply stared at the man. "He is a blacksmith's apprentice from Kings Landing, traveling with the recruits who helped me escape. He's no one of importance." The displeased look on Lord Smallwood's narrow face changed her mind, what harm could come of it? Even Gendry would not say anything stupid, even if questioned directly. "Of course, my lord, ask him anything you like."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/grey_wind/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180708525)

# Robb

Despite some protests, his men understood why they needed to make their base around Riverrun. The position was useful for preparing an attack while protecting the castle from being taken by Lannister forces again. More personal reasons also spurred his decision: his mother and wife. Arya and Sansa were his to shelter from suffering but he failed thus far to bring them home. Father would surely have found a way by now. 

"I miss him all the time." Robb crossed the chamber to join his mother at a small table tucked to the side of her room. She sat straight, hands folded in front of her and feet crossed underneath her, the very picture of feminine strength. Yet, he recognized the weariness in her features and saw the red rims around her eyes. Mother was not handling the family reunion well, as her father was gravely ill.

"As do I," her voice was quiet as she looked out the hazy window, drawing Robb's attention to how thin she appeared. No wonder, aside from sitting by her father's bedside all day, mother spent many nights sitting up with Merry. His wife's condition had improved somewhat since they got to Riverrun, from devoted and constant care. Regardless of the endless distractions, he made an effort to converse with her at least once a day.

"Your counsel has been invaluable to me," he smiled when she shifted her concentration back to him. Mother was the one who suggested they come to Riverrun and became his only ally in the fight to repair his marriage. Once, she even interrupted a meeting on strategy to insist that he attend to 'urgent family matters'. Lady Catelyn was perfectly willing to accept the resentment of his bannermen in order to help him see Merry.

"I still want... to be your mother." Her smile did not quite meet her eyes, likely thinking of her own parent's slow passing from this world. "I wish you were free to follow your heart." Mother lost her husband and will lose her father in such a short period: Robb could not imagine her pain. He hoped to alleviate some of that hurt by sending her and Merry to Winterfell after the child was born. However he made no promises this time, in case circumstances forced him to change those plans.

"I could have loved her," he admitted. "Lady Talisa was so different from any other woman I met: challenged me, made me think about things." Robb sighed, too focused on the present to mourn for what could have been. "I realize now that I never gave myself the chance to know Merry."

"You speak as if it is too late," she chastised in a gentle tone. "The beauty and challenge of marriage is that it lasts a lifetime. Your father did not love me when we married, he did not knew me nor I him. Love did not simply happen to us... we built it slowly over the years, stone by stone. For you, for your brothers and sisters, for all of us."

"I'm not sure I can have that with Merry," he confessed as he raked his fingers through his growing hair, "she won't forgive me." Try as he might, his wife remained nonchalant, only allowing the briefest of visits. Before too long, she claimed to need rest and had him tossed out of her chamber by rather insistent Septas. Mother gave him an encouraging smile and extended a hand to hold his, a gesture he missed as of late.

"She will eventually," she had a way of saying things she could not be certain of as if they were well-known fact. "The child will help, I know her condition seems a burden but becoming parents will bring you closer than you can imagine. Your love for your child cannot help but spill over to your wife. If we did not have you, and Sansa soon after, your father and I might not ever have mended the rift over... Jon."

"Was it really mended?" He regretted the words as soon as they were out, noticing the way her fingers tightened along with her expression. "I never asked him about," Robb paused, not sure this was the best time to discuss the subject, yet mother looked up at him expectantly. "Jon's mother: I thought of her as dead and buried in the past." She closed her eyes and shuddered before refocusing on him. "Now I can see her ghost lingered with us all along."

"You never asked your father about Jon's... mother." She drew in a breath, as if to gather the strength she needed to continue. "I did ask, more times than I could count." Mother shook her head, clearly distressed by the questions left unanswered for two decades. "He never answered any of my questions and now he never shall." Her gaze hardened as she leaned forward. "If you want to restore trust in your marriage, be honest even if the truth hurts."

Robb let her words sink in, mind swarming with every instance he neglected to tell his wife the truth. He was guilty of the most insidious form of dishonesty. From the first day of their marriage, he expected her to accept and support his decisions. His promise to let her speak her mind was given with good intent but he never gave her the chance. She accepted him in her bed, never expressing a desire to delay having children. Would he have listened, if she found the courage?

"I think I will go see how she is feeling." Robb still had no idea how to bring up these painful topics with Merry. He knew not what words would tear down the walls between them, but he had to make an attempt at any rate.

"Give her my love." Mother squeezed his hand before rising together with him, likely to return to her father's side when she should be resting. Lady Catelyn Stark possessed a stronger character than most, without her guidance, he would be lost. He let go of his mother's hand and held open the chamber door for her. Robb indicated to the guards posted in the hall to follow him.

As he strode through the corridors, everyone he passed stood aside and bowed their heads to give him a wide berth. A king always stands alone, often respected and occasionally beloved by those around him but never one of them. The loneliness was a surprise: having no one he could talk to about his burdens took a toll on his confidence to see this war through. Merry was the one person he should have been able to confide in but he ruined that.

Robb knocked before entering, seeing the Maester and three Septas tending Merry's every need. Robb knew his wife hated the fuss but she never complained to him about it. He cleared his throat to gain the room's attention and six pairs of eyes snapped up to look in his direction.

"Everyone, please give us a moment." No one questioned the King, the Maester and Septas alike bowed their head and scurried to do as he bid. "Wife," he greeted Merry, sitting propped up on a mountain of pillows, still too thin but the life returned to her fair skin. As she put on weight, her stomach seemed to grow at twice the rate, making her appear even smaller in the large bed.

"Husband," she greeted him pleasantly but never gave him a genuine smile anymore. "What news of the outside world?" This became their tradition since they reached Riverrun, he would call on her and she would ask for current events. They never discussed anything personal: not their marriage, Lady Talisa, or even their child. Robb let Merry direct the conversation and she chose to avoid any topic that made her uncomfortable.

"Tywin Lannister defeated Stannis Baratheon's army." He grabbed a chair from against the wall and dragged it to face her bed. "His siege against the Red Keep failed spectacularly." He sat back in the chair, not bothering with proper posture and combed a hand through his knotted curls, wincing when he caught a snag.

"Stannis is a formidable man..." Merry rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and let out a breathy chuckle. "Or so I have heard." A ghost of a smile haunted her lips for an instant before passing as quickly as it came.

"I've heard the same," Robb never met the man, only heard tales from his father and other men who fought beside him. "My bannermen are fighting amongst themselves about what he did wrong so our attack will be successful." He could not resist trying to sustain the light tone of their conversation. It was so rare she granted him any emotion other than emotionless indifference. "Sufficed to say, there is not much peace when making war."

"Aptly said," she fought the smile tugging on the corner of her lips. "I will have to write that one down for the history books. 'The Great Musings of the King in the North', a ten volume set." Robb laughed at her jape and his heart soared when she allowed herself the smallest giggle. When did he forget how clever Merry was? His musing cut short when her light titter cut off with a sharp gasp as she clutched her rounded stomach.

"Are you alright?" Robb rushed to her side but was afraid to touch her. He considered shouting for those Septas he impolitely shooed out of the room.

"The child is restless," she panted, wrapping her hand around his wrist and pulled him down on the bed to sit next to her. "We are well enough, do not worry." The mattress sank under Robb's weight, and her body leaned towards him. He reached out to help her regain her balance and adjusted a few pillows by her side. Merry sighed and sank back, that small effort sapping all of her strength.

"Is there anything I can do?" Robb kept his voice low as her eyes fluttered closed and she hid a yawn behind her hand. Merry focused a heavy lidded gaze on him, filled with uncertainty. "Tell me," he encouraged with a nod.

"Would you..." Merry took a deep breath, letting her impassive mask slip for just a moment. Her expression revealed the vulnerable woman underneath as she pointed to a rolled up paper on her bedside table. "I did not forget your nameday." Robb picked up the parchment and glanced back to see her nodding in approval. "I only did not finish until today." He unrolled the parchment to reveal a stunningly detailed portrait of Grey Wind.

"You made this?!" Robb turned to his wife with shock and she only dipped her head and smiled modestly. He looked back to admire the artwork, the fine detail in the eyes made the likeness appear almost alive. "I didn't know," he breathed, suddenly overcome with shame. "Of course, I never did ask what your talents were. You had the right of it, saying you were cursed to have me for a husband."

"I regret those words... more than I can say," she whispered, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow to gain his attention. "Do you like it?" Merry blushed as she asked, her brow wrinkling in distress over his self-recrimination.

"I love it," he assured her, smiling as he replaced the parchment on the side table to cover her hand with his own. "Thank you." Robb hoped she could tell he sincerely loved her present: the only gift he received in celebration of his nineteenth year. He could not blame his mother for her distraction or his bannermen for not caring about such things. "Grey Wind's never looked more handsome." Merry finally smiled and her whole face glowed with happiness.

"I have only met him a few times so it might not be perfect," Merry babbled bashfully. "I strove to capture his wild sprit and unbreakable loyalty." She raised a free hand to her lips, silencing herself as she flushed from widow's peak to pointed chin. Robb felt certain at that moment he made the right decision in coming to Riverrun, despite opposition from some of his bannermen.

"You are a wonder, my wife." Robb removed the hand hiding her shy smile, reluctant to leave when they were getting along so well. How could he ever have forgotten what it felt like to make her happy? He truly wanted to stay as long as she let him but worried he might cause her to overexert herself. "Should I leave you alone to rest?"

"No!" Merry's eyes grew wide before avoiding his again and held onto his arm even tighter. "Please... stay a while longer." His heart seized with hope that she wanted to make things right between them as much as he did. Robb ducked his head into her line of sight to give her one of his most charming smiles.

"I will stay," he promised her. "As long as you like." He should not make promises like that: his men would demand his presence before long. Robb wanted to mean it, the heaviness that lingered on his shoulders only lightened when Merry was happy and well.

"Will you hold me?" Her nearly inaudible request shocked Robb so much that he almost repeated her question to be sure he heard her right. Merry's countenance betrayed her as it always did, full of fear and worry: somehow anxious that he would reject her.

"I won't be disturbing you?" Robb found himself caught between concern for Merry and happy that she would allow him so close after keeping him at a distance for so long.

"I am not so fragile," her tremulous voice was at odds with her words. His heart constricted from the knowledge he was the cause of her anxiety. Robb vowed to himself, once again, to never cause Merry's tears again as he moved to settle by her side and splay one palm over her round middle. Something bumped against his hand, causing him to gasp and pull away. Merry took his hand, placed it back on the same spot, and held it in place: after a moment he felt it again.

Robb gazed at Merry in wonder, truly accepting the reality he would soon be a father to a helpless child who would depend on them for everything. 'Father', he hoped the dead could hear prayers, 'I will try to live up to your example'.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/tonic/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180810362)

# Merry

His breathing slowed as his head lolled back onto the pillow and she moved unhurriedly into a more comfortable position so she could watch her husband sleep. How long had it been since he slept by her side? As her condition improved, since arriving in Riverrun, guilt over her stony treatment of Robb began to eat away at her heart. She could not help herself... every time she saw him smile, it made her think of him smiling at someone else.

She never used to curse the gods for making her plain, in a way it was a defense against some lord taking an interest in marrying her. When Robb Stark, future Lord of Winterfell, rode through the gates of The Twins, Merry never dreamed he would claim her for his wife. That is what he did, to the shock of everyone. They all questioned what she did in her private meeting with him. Not a soul suspected that, in one conversation, she found herself falling in love.

Robb turned out to be much less the hero of her most girlish fantasies and more of a spoiled selfish little boy. He looked so young when he slept, the worry eased from his sleeping face, except his beard was growing out. Merry wanted to touch the coarse hair but feared waking him and ending this rare precious moment. He ignored her, fell for another, and broke her heart, yet none of that could kill the hopeless adoration she held for him.

Merry never forgot why Robb married her... he wanted to save his family and needed an alliance with her house. For a time she ignored the truth and that only served to hurt her worse when the inevitable happened. She pondered their situation for a long time, admiring the way his lips parted slightly to let his slow breath pass between them. It was wrong of her to presume he would live up to her unrealistic expectations.

In her mind, she knew it was right to let go of her resentment to focus on being a better wife and soon a mother. Merry constantly strove to do the most reasonable thing and refused to let emotions sway her decisions. At least that was true before she foolishly fell in love with her husband. Her mind was convinced of the correct course of action but her heart still longed for Robb to return her feelings. She doubted that yearning would ever cease its terrible ache.

A gentle knock announced the entrance of Septa Bonnard, a quiet and kind woman. At all times, she seemed to observe everything around her without any judgment. Merry liked the holy woman immensely yet thought forming an attachment was asinine. One or both of them might abruptly leave Riverrun on the whims of another. The Septa walked to her bedside, taking note of Robb's slumbering form and kept her voice to a whisper.

"Forgive me, Your Grace." Septa Bonnard bowed her head in apology. "It is time for your tonic." Merry put a finger to her lips and nodded her head, hoping to prolong Robb's rare chance for relaxation. The Septa was quiet as a mouse as she prepared the tonic but he stirred awake nonetheless. He sat up, blinking and rubbing his eyes before he focused on her with a lazy smile.

"You should've woke me," he mumbled, stifling a yawn with his hand. "I meant to keep you company, not nap like a lazy cat." To Merry's endless detriment, Robb rose from her bed. He stretched his arms over his head and rubbed his neck before looking back at her.

"You needed rest," she was concerned with Robb's overworked state, yet would never voice her real reason for wishing he stayed asleep. Merry wanted him there as long as possible and even hoped he might sleep through the night just so she could watch him. It would make her too wretched to admit such a pitiful thing. "I enjoyed having you here, even your snoring."

"I never did!" Robb feigned insult, holding his chest with mock distress. "Septa, I fear my wife has become a wicked liar." He aimed a roguish grin at the blushing Septa, twice Robb's age and celibate by vow, but still a woman. "You see that she mends her ways, before I return tomorrow." He leaned forward, placing both hands on the bed to tilt his face close to hers, wordlessly asking permission. Merry hesitated a moment before closing her eyes in silent consent.

Bittersweet was the first kiss she received from her husband since her heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Robb's lips were soft and brief against hers but a thrilling heat ran over her skin and flushed her cheeks. Her body might be overlarge with child yet she still craved her husband as much as the first day she saw him.

"Ah! I almost forgot." Robb pushed off the bed to retrieve the portrait she drew for him, holding it up with a warm smile. "Thank you again, wife." He leaned close once more, balancing on one hand to steal an even swifter kiss. "Tomorrow," he promised as he pulled away and strode out of the chamber door without a glance backward. It was far too easy for him to walk away, it broke her heart each time he did.

"Septa Bonnard," she called the woman to her side, "I have need of my uncle, Olyvar. Please send someone to fetch him for me."

"Of course, Your Grace." The gentle woman dipped into a curtsey before fulfilling the request. She opened the door to speak with someone posted outside before returning to finish preparing the tonic. The Septa gave a full description of the tonic's purpose as she handed it over but Merry dismissed the information as insignificant. She downed the foul substance in one gulp, dropped the emptied cup onto the serving tray, and waved it out of her sight.

Before long, a knock at the door announced her uncle's presence and the Septa bade him to enter and stand next to Merry's bedside. Olyvar was cursed with the same long Frey features she possessed, washed-out pale complexion, and a permanent frown. Perhaps he only constantly frowned around his niece because he feared her... that assumption pleased her so she promoted it to truth.

"You asked for me, Your Grace?" He kept his eyes down on his feet in a fine impression of humility from a known blatherskite. Nevertheless, Merry knew if she were not queen then Oly would show her little respect. All Frey men treated their female relatives in the same way - nuisances and chattel.

"Please leave us," she told the Septa and waited for the woman to exit the room before continuing. "Give me your report." Her uncle ran a hand up the length of his forearm in a reluctant gesture.

"Merry, I don't feel right about spying on my king." He made a passably decent impression of reluctance but she knew his character far better than to believe his innocent ploy. "He's good to me-"

"Enough of your twaddle," she cut him off, leveling her coldest gaze on him. "I am your Queen and I am not 'asking' for your report." She sneered at him, imitating Lord Walder Frey, delighting in the shudder he could not hide. "Do not disappoint me, uncle."

"There is no sign of the healer since I warned her away." Oly's report remained the same over the last several weeks and each time it lifted a bit more of the burden from her heart.

"Good, she seemed like a lovely woman." Merry tilted her head to the side and gave her uncle a calculating look she knew would have him shaking. "I would hate for any dreadful fate to befall her." Motivating a person, especially a man, to do anything uncomfortable was more difficult than one might assume. Fear is one of the best motivators.

"Lord Bolton has made more arguments against King Robb," he continued, speaking hurriedly. "He's trying to gain support from the other bannermen to expedite the attack on Kings Landing." That whey-faced odious man grated on Merry's last nerve, yet what to do about him was a puzzle indeed. Curses on her misshaped and useless body, this child had all but rendered her useless to help her husband! Thankfully, a impulsive idea took shape and she smirked in satisfaction.

"Maester Tolone is loyal, tell him I need tincture of Buckthorn-" Her words cut off when the young man seized with a fit of the giggles over her mention of a laxative. "Please grow up, Oly! Should I write grandfather and tell him what a child you are being?" His mirth hiccupped to a stop and Merry nodded her approval. "I thought not. Find a reason to approach someone sitting next to Lord Bolton and pour the entire vial in his stew while he is distracted."

"The whole thing?!" Oly's eyes flew open wide in disbelief to which she responded only with a cool stare and raised eyebrows. "O-of course, yo-Your Grace." He managed to stammer an agreement and return his gaze to the ground. "He'll be in for one sorry night." Though the words were murmured under his breath, Merry heard them.

"Moreover," she explained wryly, "he will still be sorry in the morning - too sorry to complain overmuch during tomorrow's war counsel." Then Robb would be able to call on her even sooner, she restrained her most-deserved smugness from showing on her face. Fascination overcame her cousin's features, revealing how blameless Olyvar Frey really was. A Frey though-and-through... appreciating a good scheme was a family trait.

"The way your mind works, Merry." The juvenile buffoon would be impressed by such a childish maneuver, yet she had so little to work with in her current condition. Desperate times call for desperate immature measures. The awe in his voice faded as he eyed her warily, well aware that she could take him down with a word. "Your Grace." Oly bowed once more, waiting for a dismissal.

"Get out," she waved a hand in his direction, not bothering to watch him leave. It struck her as humorous that her husband believed he did not really know her because he missed her talent for art. He had no clue who she truly was, oblivious as to how she ingratiated herself to grandfather and the things she did to win his favor. While growing up, no one ever noticed quiet little Merry, so they often did not keep their confidences safe around her.

Whispering secrets in grandfather's ear earned her elevated status. However, keeping secrets to herself to gain favors was her real talent. Some might accuse her of extortion but she called it survival. How else could she reach such an advanced age without being married off? How else could she have kept her own private chamber, wardrobe, and position at the Lord's table? Grandfather protested Merry's 'noisy' ways but he never failed to take advantage of her cunning. 

She did not have to play 'the besotted maiden' in front of Robb because he brought out the most innocent side of her with his own natural charm. Her husband might not ever love her and she could learn to live without his affection. He would certainly detest her if he ever realized her darker nature, a fate she feared most of all. How long could she continue to hide her true self from him?

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/disguise/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180873636)

# Sansa

For the thousandth time, Sansa cursed herself for the solitary phrase she ever retorted to Joffrey after he threatened to behead Robb. 'Or maybe he'll give me yours', she said those words in a moment of pure insanity. She fantasized a thousand times about her brother presenting that bastard pretender's head on a silver platter. Voicing that wish aloud cost her more than she comprehended at the time.

Ever since the failed siege, her emotions were swept from one extreme to the other more times than she could count. Sandor was taken away and imprisoned in the same dungeon where her father spent his last days. The beautiful Lady Margery Tyrell swept into court and secured an engagement with the bastard king. After brief elation, Sansa realized how much more vulnerable her new position was. 

What childish madness possessed her to be glad when Margery Tyrell 'stole' Joffrey away? It exceeded mere foolishness to believe he had set her free. After the bastard king cast her aside for another, others began to acknowledge her position. The false smiles of the lords and ladies turned to open sneers or naked pity... her veil-thin facade had been broken. She now had to accept her status as a prisoner of war and nothing else.

Lord Baelish almost seemed to gloat as he warned her that Joffrey would still dishonor and impregnate her. Then the children she bore would be bastards as well as the descendants of a traitorous House. All of this occurred as her sole protector toiled in a dungeon because of her own selfishness. In the last few days, she seriously considered ending her miserable life before anyone else died because of her. 

With the marriage arrangement broken, she awoke from a nightmare... only to be plunged into an even more terrifying one! Devastated by the harsh reality and infuriated further by her silly relief over being released from the engagement , Sansa almost gave into her desire to cry. Her grief was so consuming that she forgot about her handmaiden until the woman spoke, low and insistent.

"The hound is in the dungeon - he would be dead if the king wanted it." Shae's words did not surprise her though tears stung Sansa's eyes anyway. She forgot inquiring about Sandor's condition, although little else consumed her thoughts before her betrothed broke their engagement. "You miss the true problem." Shae raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer but Sansa only sighed and shrugged her shoulders in defeat. "We must get rid of that Tyrell girl."

"How, when she already has Joffrey eating out of her hand?" Sansa rolled her eyes at how easily the lady handled Joffrey. Margery Tyrell demonstrated a deft ability to read others when her declaration of love for Joffrey rang with truth. Unlike Sansa's girlish fearful confessions, Margery's stated devotion seemed an impassioned holy profession.

"Ah, but the lioness sees the girl as a threat." Shae eyed Sansa, seemingly gauging her pupil's ability to understand. Yes, she had observed Cersei watching her son fall under the beautiful Margery Tyrell's spell. The queen's grip on Joffrey continued to slip ever since King Robert met his fate and the bastard king was crowned.

"The queen is no fool and will not see her family's status come to any peril." Sansa was aware that the Tyrells posed the greatest threat to the Lannister's hold on the seven kingdoms. They were the second richest family, and nobody was ever satisfied with second place. Well, they could attempt to take the Lannister's place in the realm, yet she declined to forego her plan just to accommodate the Tyrells.

"So we must help her see the pretty flower as a threat and see you as safe." Shae paused for a moment of seemingly deep contemplation. "Ask to meet the queen, beg her help to repair your engagement. I will go to someone who can help encourage her." Sansa nodded, understanding her safety depended on remaining ignorant of whom Shae was going to for help.

"I must see the hound," her voice betrayed the desperation she felt. Despite Shae's insistence that Sansa trust no one, it seemed right to be truthful with her. Sandor was locked up in the same dungeon her father spent his last days in, both times were her fault. He would be free if she had simply let him go, he would not be a prisoner... like her. Joffrey still might have him executed on a whim and she would be responsible for his death. "Please, help me find a way."

"Don't worry." Shae's eyes sparkled mischievously, meaning she had already formulated a plan. Somehow, without having to explain, Shae understood when Sansa truly needed something. The handmaiden placed a familiar touch on her lady's shoulder and gave a slight squeeze of reassurance. "You will see him this night." With that, the woman turned on her heel and marched to exit the chamber.

When the door shut behind Shae, Sansa walked to her sewing chair, slumping into it gracelessly from emotional exhaustion. She picked up her needle, and started stitching through the golden gossamer fabric slipping between her fingers. Her deft ability and technique were impeccable from countless hours of practice. An idea began to take shape with each stitch, as she prayed to the Crone to give her the wisdom to manipulate the queen of manipulation.

Several hours passed before the handmaiden returned, holding a small sack of mysterious contents. Sansa struggled to stem her curiosity about whom Shae went to see... it was safer to be ignorant. She rose to join the other woman, standing at attention and waiting for instruction. Shae walked around her lady, looking her up and down as if trying to picture her wearing something else.

"My lady, have you ever stained your hair?" At Shae's query, Sansa's hands unconsciously went to her hair and she looked to the strands curling around her fingers. "A lady would be noticed sneaking into the dungeon," she explained. "A servant is never noticed." The hesitancy in Sansa's heart was replaced with determination as Shae supplied a handmaiden's dress, holding it up in front of her.

"I will do it." Sansa needed no further explanation as Shae set out an assortment of supplies. First, Shae told Sansa to undress to her smallclothes as she poured vinegar into a bowl that smelled of walnuts, rosemary, and sage. The handmaiden wrapped a sheet around Sansa's bare body, sat her in a chair, and stood behind her. She used a rag to spread the mixture over Sansa's hair, avoiding her skin.

The murky paste soaked into Sansa's hair, she detested the smell but trusted Shae. After completing the task, Shae wrapped a towel around Sansa's head and told her to sit still until the dye set. As Shae cleaned the room, Sansa allowed herself to panic, doubting her ability to remain calm enough to pull off this risky charade. Still, she refused to abandon Sandor after he risked his life and freedom on her fear-fueled whim.

After some time passed, Shae removed the towel, covered in grey splotches, and used it to ring out Sansa's hair, soaking up the excess moisture. Shae combed and twisted Sansa's hair into a simple tight bun and helped her lady into the handmaiden dress. She walked around Sansa, one hand resting under her chin, admiring the transformation with a pleased expression.

"You are truly a great beauty, my lady." Shae's sincere words did little to convince Sansa that a bit of dark sticky mess did anything to make her look beautiful. "Keep your face down and stare at the ground, no one will notice. If someone does," she pushed her skirt apart to reveal she still carried a knife on her leg. Sansa considered anyone who bothered them tonight unlucky because her handmaiden wore a blade and an even sharper expression.

Shae hid the small bag of supplies under a basket of laundry and handed Sansa a stack of fresh towels to carry. The laundry needed no clarification, servants were supposed to look busy or else they would be questioned. Sansa smiled, thinking Shae was the one who still needed instruction on how to behave like a proper servant. She no longer minded the brash handmaiden's fiery attitude... Shae's role had long-since developed from servant to teacher.

"I am ready." She followed her handmaiden out of the chamber, both walking together with their eyes stuck to the floor. Sansa dared not raise her head, terrified a passerby would recognize her regardless of the disguise. Shae's assurance proved correct as the few people they passed paid them no mind at all. Reaching an apparent dead end, Sansa was about to turn around when Shae pushed a crack in the wall... it slid open!

The feisty handmaiden flashed a grin and Sansa returned the smile, exhilarated despite the risks they took. A torch was burning on the other side of the wall, necessary in the pitch blackness ahead. She would lose her wits if forced to live down there for any length of time. They moved forward, having to bend low when the ceiling dipped, then a voice rasped out from the dim.

"Who's there?" His quiet question relaxed the tension that plagued her body since she first heard of his imprisonment but the relief was short-lived. These past weeks she only imagined his voice and Sansa failed to realize how much she anticipated and feared hearing the harsh sound again. 

"Call to me again, so I can find you." She wandered towards his voice, deliberately moving slow because she needed to hear him speak again to assuage her doubts. What if he blamed her? In truth, he lost his freedom because she begged him to rejoin the battle and stay by her side. Why would he do anything for the mere reason that she asked? For a time she almost fooled herself into believing that she finally understood Sandor Clegane yet lately doubted she ever would.

"Little bird?" His pet name for her, or perhaps merely the soft way he spoke, sent a jolt up her spine. The impropriety used to horrify her, both his calling her so informally and the husky familiar tone he used. The feeling he stirred, once she attributed it to fear, yet came to recognize the sensation as... thrilling. "Is that you?" His rough voice betrayed surprise, thankfully not anger. A tremble settled in her stomach and her heart raced but not out of fright.

"Yes?" She stopped, though she saw the faint outline of Sandor sitting just ahead of her. The memory of his ungentle kiss engulfed her mind and her fingertips unconsciously moved to her lips, tingling in remembrance.

"Little bird, forgive me but I have no strength to serve you this night." His usual mocking tone and attempts to frighten or anger her grew tiresome. He did not 'lie' but at some point, perpetual sarcasm is akin to blatant dishonesty. Sansa ignored Sandor's tone and tried to find the truth in his words. Why would he need her forgiveness when he never made any trespass against her? She was the one who should beg his pardon for requesting that he put himself in danger.

Turning back, Sansa beckoned Shae to step closer, casting the torchlight onto Sandor's form as she walked forward to kneel at his side. His eyes rejected hers, turning away to stare into the blackness, showing only his damaged side to her. Nonetheless, she saw hollowed cheekbones casting shadows down his face. Dismayed by his condition, Sansa thought of her father living in this filthy hole with no light in the time leading up to his death.

Her gaze fell to the ground, tears spilling on behalf of her poor father, for once not feeling sorrier for herself than for him. When Sandor reached his manacled hands up to Sansa's face, she closed her eyes and let him wipe a tear from her chin. She reached out to clutch his calloused hand in hers and sought his eyes to convey her honesty.

"I will free you," she vowed, a good lady should protect the sword and shield serving her. Sansa intended to deliver him from this captivity somehow... her fingers would stitch until she thought of a way. Saving him would also partially atone for never attempting to save her father. Sandor is similar to her father in some ways, both were warriors pledged to serve Robert Baratheon. Both men were reserved about their true feelings, yet honest.

Her father wanted to protect Sansa and Sandor seemed to want the same. Could she have underestimated his level of devotion to her? Father protected and never lied to her because he loved his daughter as a father should. Was it possible, even a tiny chance, that Sandor loved her? Mother help her, Sandor had the right of it... her head was full of silly songs! She needed to be rid of those girlish notions if she wished to survive this most dangerous game they played.

Sandor was neither her lover nor her family, but her protector, and she should not question his motives. Her thoughts were interrupted when he abruptly pulled away and a choking cough racked his body, sending dread creeping up Sansa's spine. Steeling herself against hopeless fear, she scooted closer to him and gently patted his back until the hacking ceased. His chains clinked as he wiped the sweat collected on his brow and turned towards her again.

"I dare not risk coming here again," she motioned for Shae to approach them, the handmaiden handed her lady a bundle of bread. Sansa fought back a shudder when the light revealed just how ghastly and pale Sandor looked in just a moon's cycle. "I will send Shae with something for your cough." Shae knew to leave them alone without being told, staying just close enough to give them a little light.

Sansa opened the water skin she carried to hold it to his lips and his hands reached over hers as he gulped the fresh water. She pulled it away, not wanting him to choke or become ill, and tore a piece of bread from the loaf. Sandor's hands were dirty and bound so it seemed practical to hold the chunk to his mouth. He stared at her for a moment, as if incapable of trusting she would feed him from her own hand.

Sandor parted his lips, studying her face as she timidly placed the morsel on his tongue. Repeating the process with another piece of the bread proved surprisingly intimate. Sansa continued to feed him a piece at a time until he ate half the loaf. Wrapping it up, she set the bread beside him and helped him drink more water. The whole experience made her oddly reluctant to leave him all alone again... perhaps more because she was lonely without his comforting presence.

Leaning forward on her hands, she held his gaze as she lowered her lips to brush across his for the briefest of instants. Neither closed their eyes, watching the others' reaction to her fleeting expression of affection. Sandor was unreadable as always, but she did think, perhaps she saw his eyes shining with some softer emotion. Without another word, she left his side before she started to cry again... refusing to show any more weakness.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/darkness/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180858934)

# Sandor

Wouldn't've killed her to bring wine - fuck the water - fuck the buggering bread. Though the fingers that fed him were tasty enough. Still, she could've brought wine, Dornish red or any kind really, anything fermented. His damned head never stopped pounding and spinning - lucky he didn't retch all over her - he only stopped losing his stomach because it was empty. He felt weak as a babe and thought he might actually die down here a few times.

Ha! Wouldn't that be fucking hilarious, the fearsome hound defeated by a dark hole and a lack of drink. Unbidden, the simpering 'Ser' Dontos came to mind, the slobbering fool who slurred and bumbled. Sandor didn't think he acted the fool, but who would say so if he was a blundering drunk? Only some asshole with a death wish would insult the hound - but that didn't make it untrue.

Dependency made a man soft and Sandor may well have only one craving - Sansa was clearly a stronger substance than spirits. Even in the hazy gloom of this thrice-damned hole she looked perfect, at first he thought she was another dream come to torture his sleep. The days and nights passed in darkness so he couldn't tell the length of his stay but his nose never adjusted to the stale air.

When Sansa knelt by his side, her warm scent filled his senses, he could almost taste the light radiating from her. The glow of the torch behind her had lit up her darkened hair, creating a glowing halo around her face. The Maiden herself could not be so beautiful and kind - especially not to a dirty dog chained to a crumbling wall. It was enough to give a man some faith in the gods after all. Seven hells, she should've brought him wine - he was going mad locked away like an animal! 

He wouldn't wipe away the tears that leaked from his eyes - the first he'd cried in years - sober, anyway. Sandor always wondered why others wept when they were happy - he got his answer when the lady lowered herself to come see him in this bloody fleapit. Joy was a foreign notion but nothing else described the feeling that came over him. The night the Blackwater burned, he meant it when he pledged to keep her safe.

A Clegane never forgets his humble beginnings, a kennel master whose loyalty gained an elevated position. A good dog remained true to its master but a worthy master doesn't kick his loyal dog. His mind was made up the moment he stole that kiss. Sandor never cared much for flowery nonsense like 'sworn shields', but couldn't deny that Lady Sansa stole his devotion from the Lannisters with laughable ease. 

Fuck him if he ever planned to utter a word like 'devotion' in the little bird's ear but Sandor decided it was high time he made a vow. A promise to himself - that much he could abide - was from different bending a knee to some bloody nobleman who never earned his position. Doubtful he'd ever leave this dungeon but - if the lady wanted to be queen or return to her family - he'd do all in his power to help her. A spell later, another torch glowed in the distance.

"Stupid wench," he growled at the handmaiden. Varys stood beside the foreign woman, his sly humble expression easily recognized even in the dim. "Don't you know you can't trust a spider?" Sandor wanted to roar but his voice came out a mere weak bark. The handmaiden wasn't impressed in the slightest, pulling back her dress to reveal a dagger on her shapely leg.

"Call me 'stupid' again, and I will cut your pretty face," she hissed in her foreign voice. He took her at her word but he laughed anyway, he liked that she was blunt. The little bird would need this fierce woman to protect her while he toiled in this eighth hell. "I have told him nothing of my lady's plans, only asked if he would aid her."

"Clegane, I am not here to cross Lady Sansa, in fact I do very much want to help her." The spider's words sounded both like a lie and the truth - Sandor hated not being able to tell. "If she thinks that helping you will be of assistance to her, I am glad to be of some small service." 

"Huh," he eyed the bald man's serious face with suspicion before nodding, not really agreeing, but not arguing. The dark haired woman unpacked some bread and cheese, setting them next to him beside a large skin of water. Lord Varys crouched by Sandor's side and held out a vial to him, explaining the contents as he passed the potion.

"One small swallow will help you sleep restfully, eat when you wake." Varys clasped a hand on his shoulder and Sandor didn't know what to make of the unfamiliar friendly gesture. "Use it sparingly... I do not know if I can come again." Then the man stood and walked away, followed by Sansa's handmaiden. Dark once again - that's how he usually preferred it - but then, he'd always lived in the shadows before he first saw his bright little bird.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/yellow_maiden/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180692283)

# Gendry

He stared hard at the door: wishing his eyes could see through solid wood. A thousand doubts ran through his mind and his brains weren't smart enough to sort through them all. What if the Lord questions their relationship? Things were different on the isle, nobody there seem to care one way or the other. Somehow, his nervousness only increased when the door finally opened.

"Don't worry," the lord said to Arry while wearing an easy smile. "I only have a few questions for him. My wife will care for you and see that you get everything you need." The lord turned to his man posted in the hall. "Have this young lady brought to my wife at once, and tell the men we are postponing our departure for another night." 

"Thank you, my lord." Arya dipped into a curtsey that Gendry had to witness to believe, graceful as her water dancing practice. She constantly complained about what a terrible lady she was, in the past he'd always believed her. "Lord Smallwood wishes to have a word with you," she gave him an encouraging look before walking away with her escort. 

"Young man," the lord held out a hand to invite Gendry inside, "please come in." Inside the room: Lord Smallwood approached a large wooden desk and rested against it, crossing his arms as his eyes filled with judgment. "Your name?" 

"Gendry, milord." He cleared his throat, annoyed by the sudden high pitch. "Blacksmith apprentice from Kings Landing." Gendry started to sweat like he used to, standing over the hot forge, and felt the impulse to beg for his life. "Milord, I swear-" 

"So I've heard." Lord Smallwood interrupted him, inclined his head, and released a soft chuckle. "We haven't had a blacksmith in some time and good labor is hard to come by in these trying days." The lord pushed off the desk, circling and raking his eyes over Gendry's height. "How old are you?" 

"I'm not sure of the date," he spoke slowly, confused by the lord's questions. Gendry expected the man to demand to know if he's done anything to dishonor Arya. "I'll be ten-and-seven soon enough, milord." 

"And how long have you been a blacksmith?" Lord Smallwood faced him and stood very close: Gendry gulped and curled his fingers into his palm. 

"Almost all my life," he fought the urge to take a step back, his whole body screamed to run away. "I trained with Master Mott: he's well-known in the Crownlands." 

"Acorn Hall has been without a smith for too long." The lord stepped even closer and Gendry could feel the man's breath on his face. "I can make your life very comfortable here." Lord Smallwood traced his fingers lightly over Gendry's shoulder and down his arm. "The forge could be all yours." A shudder of fear and disgust shot through his body as he tried to deny what was happening. 

"My-milord," he stuttered and tried to find some excuse to deny the request. "I promised to help Lady Stark return to her family." The words whooshed out of Gendry's mouth on a sigh of relief that he managed to speak at all. 

"I see." Lord Smallwood frowned and removed his hand to place it behind his back, turning to stand next to his desk. "Robb Stark has called the River Lords to Riverrun for support. I intend to leave shortly myself." The lord confronted Gendry with a calculated look. "I could take her there, with a full escort of armed men, at great risk to myself and my men. There is something you can do to alleviate my worry." 

"What's that, milord?" Gendry trembled as he waited to hear the lord's demand, hoping it wasn't what he assumed. 

"Spend the night with me," the smile that curled on the lord's lips was neither pleasant nor friendly. It was ruthless: Gendry could see Lord Smallwood was used to getting what he wanted. 

"And," Gendry gulped as his mind went blank, not really accepting the mess he found himself in. "If I did: you will help Arry- Lady Arya get to Riverrun?" 

"Of course." Lord Smallwood's victorious sneer reformed Gendry's softened mind, allowing him to speak with a bit more courage. 

"Might I take time to think on it, milord?" He held his breath, waiting for Lord Smallwood's patience to snap. The man did not look happy but he nodded his approval. 

"I expect your answer after the evening meal." Lord Smallwood moved to open the door for him, a clear dismissal. 

"Yes milord," Gendry mumbled, leaving as quickly as he could while still being polite. His feet started wandering and before he realized it, he found himself at the run-down forge that Lord Smallwood mentioned. It was in a sorry state, breaking his heart to see a perfectly good smithy not cared for properly. He set to work, cleaning and organizing what tools he could find, and the whole day passed by the time he got the forge lit. 

A grin pulled at his lips from the deep satisfaction only hard work can bring. Gendry discovered some scraps of metal and a mallet before he started doing what a blacksmith was meant for. Swing, clink, swing, clang: that bloody beautiful sound! It'd been far too long since he held a hammer and shaped some bits of metal into a valuable thing. What should he make? There wasn't enough material to fashion any kind of weapon but Arya might like a pretty present.

Laughing, he admitted she probably wouldn't like anything simply because it was pretty. She might like a token to remember him by. When did he start thinking that way again? Arya had gone and messed up his head, the only thing that cleared his mind was pounding on metal. No doubt, he was going to leave when she reunited with her family, he just didn't want to think about it. Ah! He remembered the skins he'd tanned from some of Wolfsbane's successful hunts.

He forgot about Wolfsbane! Gendry broke into a run, bursting through the stable doors to find two boys sitting on the floor. They gaped at him, both wide eyed and frozen with their arms extended to feed the weasel tiny pieces of meat. Gendry chuckled at the lads who scrambled to their feet, acting like he was some fancy lord that they should show respect to.

Ignoring the lads and their treats, Wolfsbane scurried over to Gendry's leg to crawl up the length of his body and sit on his shoulder. The boys stared in awed wonder and barely restrained jealousy so he couldn't help but grin at them. 

"You can get a weasel like this one." He waggled his fingers, summoning them closer like he had a great secret, keeping his voice low and deep. "You jus' have to steal 'em off a Green Priest from the Isle of Faces." Both of their little heads bobbed seriously and made Gendry chuckle. He ruffled their hair and thrust his chin at the stalls. "Best get on with your work now." The two youngsters scampered off to do their chores.

Gendry made short work of finding a few scraps of leather, more than he needed for what he planned. A little leather frog was what she needed, to hold her little sword. Arya loved needle, she spoke at length about the gift from her favorite brother: who also happened to be a bastard. He grinned all the way returning to the forge, happy to be one of the lucky bastards Arry opened her heart to.

The kit explored the forge as Gendry set to work, pounding the brass into buckles and fashioning a scrap of steel into a small ring. It took him longer to sharpen the knife than it did to shave the rough edges of the soft leather. Gendry shaped the frog, bending and wetting the leather as needed, nearly done but for the rivets. As he pounded them into place, he considered adding one final detail.

The portion of tin he uncovered was exactly what he needed to finish the frog, the only decoration on the practical piece of armor. He flattened the soft tin into a sheet, letting it cool and harden before stamping out a round piece. While the metal was warm, he etched in a wolf's head design, wiping his brow when finished. The smithy's heat resisted the cooling night air but he'd long since stripped off his short robe and tunic to keep them clean.

Attaching the small bit of tin to the leather frog, Gendry inspected his work. It wasn't the prettiest thing ever made with his hands, but considering what he had to work with, it looked damned good. Besides, Arry doesn't care much how a thing looks: she's more practical than that. She will like that the leather is soft but strong and the rivets are doubled to make it secure. 

"Why are you here?" Arya's voice made him look up but it wasn't her standing in the smithy's entryway. There was a stunning young lady wearing a pale yellow dress. "Gendry?" The beautiful lady approached him, her dress and hair glowed in the forge's dying light. The lady halted in front of him, put her hands on her hips, and raised a haughty eyebrow in a mocking expression. Yeah, it was Arry alright. 

"Yer wearin' a dress!" Gendry managed to choke out some words, immediately regretting how stupid he sounded. Arry threw back her head and howled with laughter, wiping a happy tear from her eye. She shook her head, looking at him like he was the biggest idiot in Westeros. 

"Ugh!" Arry's disgusted sound was gifted with a roll of her eyes. "Men are so stupid - it's just a bit of cloth." She looked down and held out the skirt of her dress, not intending to imitate a shy maiden but doing just that. Gendry's heart skipped a beat, surprising him that he liked the way she looked. He thought Arya was loveliest all wild and messy, without a care in the world: this proved she could only get prettier. 

"Your hair is so shiny, milady," he teased, as he reached out to ruffle her hair, when she moved to block his attack he expected it. Gendry grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his tight embrace to bury his face in her clean hair. "You smell good." Arry huffed in annoyance, then her arms circled his middle and he grinned against her hair. 

"Well you smell like a burnt slab of old meat," she complained but did not stop hugging him. Arya never did anything unless it was exactly what she wanted. "What is wrong with this forge?" Gendry could admit the smell was a bit much. 

"Mostly it's fallen into disrepair from disuse." He battled with himself for a moment, and then decided he wanted to be honest with Arya while he still had the chance. "The lord offered me a place here." She tensed and pulled away then, turning worried eyes up at him. 

"What did you tell him?" Arry let her tough act slip more as of late: nearly every day since she confessed her love, she showed him some new affection or honesty. Over the time they spent together, Arya came to mean more to Gendry than anyone ever had, even though she was highborn. Just when he thought he couldn't love her any more, she smiled or said something sweet that nearly sent him falling to the ground. 

"No, of course." He resisted the desire to stroke his fingers through her hair, knowing he was already ruining her pretty dress. Gendry realized it was late: she probably already supped with the lord and his wife. That meant his time to decide was up, but he had no idea what to do. He'd kill and die for her, but could he whore himself for her? "He made a second request: if I accept, you'll be granted a guarded escort to Riverrun." 

"What does he want forged?" Arya was clearly happy at the prospect of an armed escort to meet her family. Of course she'd be pleased, it was everything she hoped for when she decided to come to Acorn Hall. "What's wrong?" She always sensed his frustration, even when he believed he hid it well. 

"He wants me in his bed." Gendry laughed without humor and pushed Arya away from him, feeling dirty saying the words out loud. 

"What," at first Arya was confused, "you mean-?" Her eyes widened in horror before catching ablaze with fury. "That fucking honorless-cockless-dog-fucking pile of steaming shite!" Arry shouted and stomped around the forge, rounding on Gendry and pointing towards the keep. "I'll stick my needle in his eye!" She spun, skirt swishing about her feet, and started heading for the keep. 

"Arry: stop!" Gendry lunged forward to catch her arm, spinning her to face him "It might be for the best-" His voice failed him when he saw the horrified look on her pretty face and then she yanked her arm out of his grasp. 

"WHAT?!!!" She screamed, not caring who might coming running and question why a lady was having a row with a blacksmith. Gendry panicked and held a finger over his lips, shushing her while pointing at the keep. "You can't be serious!" She lowered her voice to a huff and stamped her foot, turning a murderous glare in the direction of the keep. "I would rather die," she hissed, "than let that depraved bastard touch my man!" 

"Your man?" Gendry blinked at her, wary of her squinting eyes and curling upper lip. 

"Of course you're my man," she scoffed. "Who else?" Then, by some miracle of the gods, Arry smiled with terrifying sweetness. "Don't worry, stupid bull - I am going to fix this." 

"What're you gonna do?" His question came too late: her quick little feet were already carrying her back to the keep. "Arry!" Gendry called after Arya but she did not turn back and he was too much of a coward to chase after her. 'Gods save me from Arya Stark's bouncing moods.'

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/forge/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=180776528)

# Arya

"My lord!" She burst into the solar, startling Lord Smallwood into scattering the parchments he studied. Arya approached the desk with as much poise as she could muster, bowing her head, and clasping her hands together. His alarmed and puzzled expression morphed into his usual amused smile. 

"Yes, princess?" Lord Smallwood eyed her with an arched eyebrow. She wanted to run him through right there - by what right does this foppy-arsed craghead think he could touch her bull?! "Is there something I can help you with?" 

"Forgive me, my lord," even she was surprised at how meek and sweet her voice sounded. "I have not been completely honest with you - about Gendry." If only she could squeeze out a tear or two, then she could really be convincing as a wispy highborn lady. "You see, he is my husband." She tried to imitate the stupid-but-pretty-and-guiltless look that Sansa seemed to achieve on instinct. 

"Your husband?" The lord ran his eyes up and down her form, likely taking note of the fresh soot stains on her dress. "That blacksmith?" Lord Smallwood seemed incredulous, yet she must convince him, or everything might fall apart. 

"While we were on the Isle of Faces, the Green Priests married us under a weirwood tree in accordance with the Old Gods." Arya bowed her face lower in a passable mockery of shame. "Forgive my lie of omission. I could not bear if word of our marriage reached my family without a chance to explain why I wed a lowborn." There, if he did not believe her syrupy sweet humbleness then she would simply have to kill him. 

"I see." The lord seemed completely caught off-guard by Arya's false confession but grudgingly accepted her words. "I can appreciate your situation, and why you felt the need to keep such a marriage to yourself." Lord Smallwood sighed as if he lost something he badly wanted, making Arya want to kick his smiley teeth. 

"I will have need of my husband this night," she informed him - it was not a request. "All night." The lord's eyebrows climbed his long forehead, leering at her once more - at least the odious man had good taste. 

"Of course, Princess Arya." Lord Smallwood bowed his head politely and Arya took her leave without any further discussion. This all worked out rather well, she smiled to herself the entire way down to the forge to drag her bull to bed. He would put up a fight - but he would never win against her. 

Arya found him still pounding away and paused in the doorway to admire him as he worked. It could be said he almost looked clever as he concentrated, instead of that stupid look he usually wore on his face. Arms, shoulders, chest, and back - all supported by strong legs - each muscle tensed and pulled as he hammered against the anvil. Gendry noticed her standing at the entry and gave her an unfriendly look. 

"Milady," he nodded once and then turned away in dismissal, making the hammer sing as it struck the metal. "You shouldn't be here." Arya huffed and marched over to the stubborn bull, irritated that he clearly did not trust her to solve the matter with Lord Smallwood. 

"I came to tell you that you don't have to fuck that slimy lord," she scowled and crossed her arms when he refused to look at her. "Thought you'd be happy." 

"You think that'll be the last time some lord makes demands of me because I'm just a lowborn bastard?" Gendry's head bowed as he released a shuddering sigh. "Arry, I'm sick of playing this game. We need to admit-" 

"Shut up!" Arya cut him off before he could say the very words she had been dreading since her declaration of love slipped out. "Just stop!" She grabbed onto his arm but he dropped his hammer to stalk away from her and stare at the wall. "Why do you keep talking like that - to hurt me? You don't even think I can be hurt, do you?" Her accusation unleashed every fear and doubt she felt. 

"Don't say that, Arry." He whipped around, holding out his hands and taking a step towards her but she retreated. Gendry stood strangely still in the soft hazy glow of the forge's fire, not saying another word and staring at her with his sad blue eyes. Why did he have to be so beautiful and even more stupid? Why did the idiot bull have to ruin everything?! Arya's chest felt like it was being stabbed with a cold knife and she wished even a single sob would escape instead of being trapped inside. 

"You think I'm strong because I don't cry? I can't!" Arya hated that she shrieked like a little girl but not more than she despised Gendry for wanting to leave her. "If I started - I would never stop. You think," she forced her voice to go cold, "because you're a lowborn bastard that only you've been stepped on your whole life?" 

"We've been dreaming," he whispered as his eyes fell to her feet. "It's time to wake up now that you'll be with your family again soon."

"I know exactly what my family will do once I get to them," she huffed a strangled laugh. "They will try to sell me to some lord I never met! And then I'd be a prisoner - as surely as I would be in Kings Landing." Arya pierced his eyes with a furious glare, clenching her fists by her side. "You don't think about any of that, do you? Because you're too stupid to look past your own self-pity." Gendry still had no response aside from gazing at her hopelessly.

"Fine," she snorted as she threw her hands up, turning to walk away but paused at the door. Arya looked back at him over her shoulder to see he had not budged. "Do whatever you want but don't look at me with those eyes, because I don't care!" She scoffed as she ran one last look over his flawless form. "And for the love of the Old Gods and the new - keep your tunic on - it drives me mad." 

Arya lifted her nose in the air and strutted away like she didn't give a single fuck about him. She bunched up the soft fabric of her skirt to prevent her nails from digging into her palms. Was he right? Every step she took away from Gendry made her feel like she was being pulled underwater, sinking into depthless dark. Was it time to wake from this 'dream'? 'Gods, why did you give me this love when he was always planning to leave me?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" episode: 'Valar Morghulis' - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.
> 
> October is just the gift that keeps on giving! /sarcasm Last week I made a push on a project and it totally brought on a bout of wrist strain - something I thought was mostly managed by now. Then I had to reseal my counter tops because they weren't sealed properly and I spilled castile soap on them. GAH! I wondered all day if I'd get around to posting this chapter today: now I know. 
> 
> Every chapter I have to tell myself:   
> *Ron Swanson's voice* "You did good, kid: you did good. You tried your best and gave your all... can't ask yourself for more than that."   
> (It helps. The Ron Swanson in my head really 'gets me'.)


	13. Birth, Life, and Certain Death

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/stuck/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=181292411)

# Sandor

He found peace in darkness, in some ways this dungeon was no less comfortable than standing in front of a court of lords and ladies. At least in the dark there's no sneering stares or avoided gazes - just rats. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he could see them skittering along the walls. The foreign wench kept him alive - Sandor scarfed down the meager fare every time she came, which was far too infrequent. 

But the little bird didn't come again and neither did the spider. The solitude he was used too - the boredom put strange ideas in his brain. He had no idea how long he'd been locked away but it's not like it made a buggering difference. Being stuck in one spot, with nothing to distract, gives a man plenty of time to think. Focusing on one task was never easy for him - he needed to be moving around, getting something done. 

Sandor tugged uselessly at his manacles and slammed them against the ground, only hurting himself - again. It was no use, he wasn't going anywhere, nothing to do but sit and brood over his fate. Thank the Seven - finally something he was good at! Chuckling darkly at himself, he never realized he possessed a sense of humor until he had nothing else to buggering do. He leaned his head against the rough wall, pondering his fucking existence - something he'd rather not do.

Honesty - supposedly, a good quality - but nobody ever fucking appreciates it because we need lies. It occurred to him that the little bird's chirps saved her better than his 'protection' ever did. That's what makes him the biggest liar of them all, to deny the need for falsehoods when they were necessary for survival. For himself - he never admitted what a drunken sod he was until he was shaking and desperate from want of drink. 

Without that lie to himself and without the drink he might've lost his patience and cut off somebody's head. Joff's, or the imp, or Lord Tywin that smug arse. Lady Sansa was in the right to say that the Lannisters didn't deserve his loyalty. Everything was so simple before he rode north with King Robert, he watched the brat and made sure he didn't die. Easy. It mattered little to him that Joff was growing into a monster, not until the little bird became the boy's favorite victim.

Why? He thought of nothing else after his head cleared from her visit. What made that girl so special - clearly she was or he wouldn't be rotting away thinking about her? Everything. Nothing. Though he never was partial to redheads and still wasn't, it was her bright hair he noticed first. She was little more than a child - a tall, dazzling child with teats. More than that, she was naive before she left her home. Maybe that was it, her innocence - no, that didn't ring true either.

When the lady - Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell - exposed the wolf inside, hiding just underneath her bright feathers, she was even more beautiful. She'd changed completely from the timid little girl who first arrived in Kings Landing. Though, he's no one to judge her true nature as he didn't know her more than in passing. He recalled the feisty arguments with her wild sister on the Kingsroad. Sandor smiled when he realized - that's the spirited girl conspiring against the king for revenge.

He, and everyone else, had been completely fooled by her docile courtly manner. Sandor usually kept out of the highborn games yet found himself knee deep in it. When Sansa Stark, born and bred a true wolf, finally chose to bare her teeth. He almost felt sorry for the Lannisters - they would never see her betrayal coming. Truly the perfect revenge - the Stark lineage would rule the seven kingdoms. She would raise her son into the perfect image of a song-worthy hero king.

The 'silliness' he mocked her for, her sense of nobility and righteousness would be good qualities in a king. Sandor found himself wanting to serve such a king, forgetting for a moment - that king would be his own son. A Clegane bastard on the throne - that thought made him laugh out loud, his little bird had lost her mind! The thought of what kind of king she would raise would not leave his mind so he tried to picture what their son might look like.

Fiery hair like hers was rare while her own father was dark of hair like him. The child might have Sansa's Tully eyes - Sandor didn't know if he could stand having two pairs of blue eyes beaming up at him. No matter what the boy looked like, he would have to be carefully reared and not be allowed to mistake Joffrey's behavior as kingly. Sandor had known the little brat king since his birth and watched him become more spoiled every day.

Joffrey was never punished, never told that King Robert was a bloody drunken buffoon and not a true ruler. Sansa would never smother her son with single-minded devotion the way Cersei had. Before long, the little prince would be old enough and Joff might find himself the victim of an unfortunate accident. Sandor spent a long time thinking on the ways he could kill the little shit and still couldn't think of a decapitating 'accident'.

Whatever the way - 'his grace' needed to die to make way for a better king and he'd find some way to take the brat's head off afterward. In his own twisted way, it would serve as a present for his little bird - Sandor would be the one to give her the king's head. Would such a gruesome gift please her? Somehow, he thought it might.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/evening/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=181211900)

# Arya

They made camp in a dense wooded area just outside Riverrun as the sun was sinking behind the treetops, casting a hazy warm glow. Arya pulled needle out of its new holster - a gift from Gendry, which she found sitting on the foot of her bed when she awoke in Acorn Hall. When they left early on that morning, neither of them exchanged a word before she bid thanks to Lord Smallwood for his hospitality.

For the past few weeks a rift remained between them, speaking only when necessary and taking turns sleeping - apart. Arya could not understand why Gendry stayed so aloof, yet it was not her place to apologize when he clearly wronged her. They managed escaping the lord's ire, even received another horse and the provisions they needed. What exactly got his breeches in a bunch?!

Annoyed and even more frustrated, Arya sat down and set her mind to the task of sharpening needle but the distraction did not help. Before she stupidly told Gendry that she loved him, she would never let some petty spat come between them. Saying those words made everything complicated! As they neared Riverrun, she could not stop thinking that this would be their last night alone together. And he might leave her forever.

If she never voiced her true feelings out loud, she could just walk over and start pestering him until he kissed her. That's how they used to work! Arya glanced up to watch Gendry rummaging through their belongings with a scowl on his handsome face. What right did he have to be angry?! He was the one who told her that he loved her while planning to leave her! She was the only one trying to stay together!

"What?!" Gendry noticed her staring at him - probably glowering - and took his turn to glare right back. Arya threw up her hands, staring heavenward, praying for any gods to take her now before she ended up killing a stupid bull. "Fine," he grumbled, ripping open his pack to yank out a fresh robe and stripped the one he wore. The long-denied sight of his body pulled an involuntary whine from her throat. 

His eyes snapped up and she averted her hungry stare, embarrassed until she heard him snickering. Anger coursed through her as she jumped to her feet to face Gendry, cocking her head to the side and sneering at him. Arya should have bit her tongue - she should have found something to eat and shoved it in her mouth. The words came pouring out before she could even think to stop them. 

"I told that slimy lord you were my husband." Arya received the stunned reaction she sought - Gendry's mouth hung open and he dropped the robe. She expected him to yell, or perhaps even laugh at her shrewdness, but he surprised her by turning away. 

"You shouldn't've done that," his voice was low like it got when he was truly angry. Fear prickled her stomach as she remembered the last time he was this cross with her. She did not want to fight with him anymore than she wanted him to leave once they reached Riverrun! 

"Don't be angry," she pleaded - to her undying shame. He only shook his head and started walking off into the woods, sending her into a panic. Arya raced after him, halting his retreat by winding her arms around his middle and pressing her cheek against his tense back. "I wouldn't ever let anyone touch my bull - I did what I had to." 

"Cut it out, Arry!" Gendry grabbed her wrists, flinging her hands off before stalking to the nearest tree. He slammed his open palm against the bark and snorted like a bull. This was all her fault - she should have seduced him when they were still on the isle. Then he wouldn't have the guts to abandon her! This might be her last chance to keep him forever and she couldn't let him go without a fight.

"You're being stupid." Arya slowly stalked closer to him, curling one arm to flatten her palm against his stomach. "Just forget about everything and let me cheer you up," she murmured, letting her hand slide down slowly. 

"I'm serious, Arya." Gendry rolled out of her reach with some grace and Arya inwardly applauded his improved balance. "Stop it! You shouldn't tell people shite like that." He wore a stern look as his fists clenched by his sides, tensing his arms and chest, his lack of clothing proved awful distracting. "I never thought you were that foolish: goin' round telling highborns we're married. Bloody hells!" 

"You worry too much." Arya scoffed at Gendry's grave expression, preoccupied by the way his skin glowed in the setting winter sun. She moved closer to stand in front of him, running a hand up his chest, and turning her eyes up with a pout. "Don't you trust me?" 

"I really shouldn't." A dark look came over his eyes before Gendry gripped under her arms, lifting her up to crush Arya between his body and the tree. "Is this what you want?!" 

"Yes," she answered eagerly and kicked off a raised root to ensnare his neck with her arms. He supported her waist and propped her body against the trunk before capturing her lips, his kiss starved of any trace of gentleness. Encouraged by his sudden passion, she dug her nails into his scalp as she curled her fingers in his hair. She bit, nipped, and sucked at his mouth - drawing a deep moan from his throat. 

Arya pressed her forehead to his, breaking the kiss and panting to catch her breath. His hard expression did not waver as she lifted her legs to wrap them around his hips. Gendry gripped her thighs, bowing his head to avoid her kiss as she sought to recapture his lips. Fighting her for control, his mouth grazed down over her chin and along her jaw to taste her neck. Arya cried out, overcome with pent-up lust that easily overtook her fading anger.

He tore his lips from her neck and his expression softened with worry, as if he was doing something unforgivable. She knew what they were doing was considered 'wrong'. The truth of it lingered in Arya's consciousness, trapped beneath the untamed instinct to claim him. No matter how wrong wanting Gendry was - it felt like the only right thing in her life. They did plenty of bad stuff together and could afford one more wrongdoing. 

No one was being hurt - least of all her - his touch and taste were all she ever craved. She scraped her nails down his neck and dug them into his shoulders, holding his gaze as she rocked her hips against his hard stomach. He grabbed one hand and pinned it above her head, letting out a pained groan as he restrained her - she let him. Arya slanted her head forward and grazed her lips, teeth, and tongue over his neck, feeling his pounding pulse under his skin. 

"You'll be the death of me," his whispered breath was hot against her neck. "I'm going straight to the seven hells."

"Take me with you," her lips lightly touched his ear before attacking his neck - biting hard, stopping just before the skin broke. Gendry growled as his hands came alive, roaming over her body and not one bit tender or careful. Arya didn't want tenderness, she wanted teeth and skin and heat, all of which he supplied fervently. Her nails and fingers explored and scraped over his arms, shoulders, neck, and chest before returning to his hair and dragging his lips back to hers. 

"You're mad, Arya: mad and beautiful." His lips trembled against hers. "Tell me to stop." Gendry couldn't understand how much the sound of his begging counteracted his genuine plea. Arya gasped for breath, tugging on his thick hair to draw his eyes to hers. His swollen lips were parted and panting as he watched her with a desperate longing that she felt just as keenly. 

"Gendry," she barely recognized the husky sound that came from her own throat. "Do - not - stop." Arya wondered if what he saw in her eyes mirrored the burning hunger in his. Whatever he witnessed unleashed his lingering restraint - he braced a knee between her legs and yanked her tunic up under her chin. Gendry wasted no time to admire her in the dying light of the sun - seizing every scrap of bare skin with his rough hands.

He curled forward and she gasped as his stubble rubbed over her sensitive chest, causing her to cry out incoherent encouragement. Arya squirmed then shrieked when his mouth closed over a hardened peak. Lightning ran through her veins - shooting from the tips of her breasts, between her legs, and then scattering to the trembling fingers that clung to him. Gendry sucked, licked, and nipped on her chest, making Arya numb to everything but his mouth. 

"Arya," Gendry moaned against her skin, a sound of total surrender, making her shiver and writhe against him. This was it - they were finally going to have each other - making everything all right between them. 

"Arya!?" The voice calling her should have terrified her - given the compromising position she was in - but it only filled her with joy. Gendry reacted with surprising speed, jerking her tunic in place and setting her down with a quickness! As soon as her feet touched the ground, she took off toward the direction the beautiful sound came from. She saw him, overcome with elation that froze her where she stood - Arya could not believe her eyes. 

"Robb?!" When her feet halted, her brother started shuffling towards her, his face a mask of disbelief and more than a hint of anger - when his eyes darted to Gendry.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/caught/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=181287608)

# Gendry

"Robb!" Arry launched herself into the open arms of a handsome young man, who of course would be her older brother. Gendry's mind panicked as he scrambled, on the hunt for the robe he dropped earlier. He yanked it over his head and turned towards Arya only to find a giant growling wolf standing between them. 'Bloody hells: gods save me!' He didn't dare spare a look at the lord's men but they were surely just as happy as their liege was. 

"Arya, is it really you?!" Robb hugged his sister but glared murderously over her head at Gendry, who gulped under the lord and his wolf's angry stares. "Let me have a look!" The lord gushed over his sister, pulling her out of his embrace to look her over from head to toe. "You're so tall!" His gaze wandered back to Gendry, glaring at him. "Arya, who is this?" She darted past the wolf, admonishing 'Grey Wind' as she passed. 

"Uh," she hurried to stand beside Gendry, raising a hand as if presenting him. "This is Gendry, my - traveling companion." Arry made a few wide gestures, stalling to find the right words. "We've come all the way from Kings Landing together - I never would have made it this far without his help." Then she waved a hand at her brother. "Gendry, this is my brother - Robb Stark of Winterfell." Under her breath, she added: "You'd never make it." 

"Huh?" Gendry forced his eyes away from the wolf's fangs to look at Arya's little smirk. "If you ran," she whispered, "Grey Wind could run faster." Arya grinned up at him, sweet and happy without a trouble or care. "You will never make it, so just trust me that you don't need to run." 

"Can't argue with that, milady." Gendry shrugged at her before carefully avoiding the wolf and bowing in front of Lord Stark. "Milord, I'm Gendry: blacksmith's apprentice from Kings Landing." 

"I see." Robb Stark measured Gendry's worth carefully, obviously none too pleased about finding a blacksmith compromising his maiden sister. "It seems I owe you a debt for helping my sister." 

"We saved each other, milord." Gendry felt honesty might be the sole way to save himself in this tense situation. "I only ever wanted to help Arry: Lady Arya return to her family." 

"And now you have," the lord pointed out. Then he turned to one of his men to give a private order, the man bowed and left to do whatever his lord bid. "Come," he put an arm around his sister. "I'm sure you are exhausted, we have warm food and clean featherbeds back in Riverrun." Lord Stark mounted his horse and Arya rode alongside her brother, chatting and laughing happily. 

They looked good together: brother and sister. Gendry scolded himself for his sudden jealousy. Not of the young lord as a man but of the way he matched with her as an equal. As they neared the castle, he was overwhelmed by its impressive structure. This was how Arry lived before she met him: the place she belonged. A party of riders rode out to meet them, a woman with bright red hair stood out.

"Mother!" Arry soared off Winter's back, it made his stomach tumble when she did that, to rush into the lady's open arms. Just at first glance, Gendry could see that Lady Stark was a fine highborn lady. Someday, his wolfgirl would become a proper lady like her mother, even if she doubted herself. 

"My girl," the lady wept with joy, squeezing her daughter tightly. A flawless lady and a perfect mother: Gendry had to admit he felt envious of Arry. "My darling Arya! You left us a girl and have come back nearly grown!" Lady Stark rose from the ground with her son's help, still weeping with joy. "Robb, your sister has returned to us." 

"Thank the gods," Lord Robb choked with emotion and the reunited family clung to each other as they continued inside the keep gates. As they entered the castle, Gendry lingered forgotten behind them, awestruck by all they passed until they reached and entered a large chamber. The lord closed the door behind him, brushing past to stand at the head of a table where his mother and sister sat and chatted quietly. 

"Apparently, we have this young man to thank for Arya's safe return." Three pairs of eyes looked to him, Lord Robb standing stiff with his arms crossed over his chest: an unfriendly frown on his face. The man's anger might be well placed, yet a waste of time, Gendry was on his way out. 

"Milord, I'm not-"

"Damn it all, Arya," the lord jerked his head back in his sister's direction. "I cannot hold my tongue any longer." His steely gaze refocused on Gendry. "You have my honest thanks for any help you gave my sister but every time I see you, I think about running you through." 

"Milord, I never meant-" Gendry stopped himself, not sure what to say. He should simply tell them that he was leaving and just go already. "What I'm tryin' to say is-" 

"Robb!" Arry leapt to her feet, screeching her annoyance. "Can you just be happy I'm safe?" Gendry thanked the gods that he wasn't the only one she treated like that. 

"Gods be good..." Lady Stark suddenly stood, staring wide-eyed like she recognized him, and covered her mouth with her hand. "The Gods have some sense of humor... I have seen too many ghosts in my life." She glanced at her daughter before returning her intense focus on Gendry. "Do you know your father?" 

"No, milady," his face flushed with shame as he dropped his gaze to the floor. "I'm a bastard in truth." 

"Mother, that doesn't matter-" 

"Quiet Arya," the lady hissed to cut short Arry's feisty defense. "For once in your life, hold your tongue." Lady Stark slowly walked towards Gendry and he felt the need to run away from her knowing stare. "I know who your father is... you are the very image of him." The instinct to flee eased, overcome by the long-denied desire to know his past. "I'll never forget what he looked like then, a young man of twenty." 

"I could never forget the face of the man who rode to war with my Ned, only a fortnight after we married. The same man who asked him to become Hand of the King... Robert Baratheon." She spoke the name like a curse and Gendry knew why: the old king was hardly beloved. "I must write a letter!" She suddenly whisked around him on the way to leave the room, calling over her shoulder to her children. "Arya, I love you. Robb, stop fighting with your sister." 

"Mother!" Both siblings cried in unison before turning matching glares at each other. The lady was already gone, leaving them all in a momentary daze.

"Arya," the lord huffed, "I cannot just ignore the fact that I found my sister being ravished in the woods by a b-" 

"Don't you dare say it!" She got far too angry on his behalf and for no good reason. Gendry tried to interrupt and tell them he would be going, but they were too busy having it out with each other. 

"Blacksmith," Lord Robb had the grace to look taken aback. "I was going to say 'blacksmith', I swear." He tilted his handsome face to one side and smiled at his sister. "Come on, underfoot, you know what I mean." 

"No I don't!" Arry jutted her chin upward at her brother and her hands flew to her hips. "For shame, Robb. I should go write Jon and tell him what a snotty high lord you are being. Besides, I wasn't being 'ravished' - whatever the hells that means!" 

"Arya," the young lord's manner changed when she mentioned their brother and her taunts went unnoticed. "About Jon, there is something you should know." 

"Robb," her voice hitched up in a panicky way, "tell me." The anger melted off her features as quickly as it did from her brother's face. "Just tell me already!" 

"There's been no word for some time," he confessed, "at least none that's reached me. Last I heard he disappeared beyond the wall with a small group of rangers." 

"No," she braced against the table to keep herself steady. Gendry didn't want to watch this moment that should be just between family but couldn't disrupt their tense exchange. 

"Jon is tough," Lord Robb put a hand on Arya's shoulder to assure her. "He's much tougher than you are and somehow you made it here from the Crownlands with only a blacksmith's apprentice for help." The young lord spoke soft and convincing, Gendry found himself strangely comforted. "I can't imagine that was easy: we Starks are made of sterner stuff." 

"Jon's not a Stark," she stepped back into her anger and shrugged off her brother's hand. "He's a Snow - because he's a bastard, and he's still my brother, same as you. Gendry belongs to me, I don't care who his father is." She put emphasis on her point by jabbing a finger in his direction. "You can't take him from me!" 

"Arya!" Lord Robb threw his hands in the air and glared down at his younger sister. "I'm not some 'snotty high lord': I am King in the North now. My bannermen have asked me to lead them and I gave my word." Gendry's blood ran cold: every bit of his skin covered in sweat and froze, and then melted again. 

"So what if you're a king now?" She knew, he could tell by her tone that she already knew her brother's rank as a royal and that made her: bloody hells, a Princess. The air sucked out from his lungs and his stomach wanted to follow. Just when his knees felt like they might give out, some instinct kicked in and started talking for him. 

"I'll send word of your brother when I reach the wall, Your Grace." Gendry heard his own words muffled in his head, like he floated face down in still waters. "I'll be gone by morning, I'm dead tired. Your Grace," he bowed without looking up, "milady." His feet moved on their own so he could make an escape and find some place to collapse. 

"You'll go nowhere and do nothing without my say so!" Arry dashed forward to grab onto his arm but he stood still, unable to face her. 

"No Arry," he sighed, "I always meant to leave after you got to your family." 

"Then your promises were lies," she ripped her hand from his sleeve as fury rose in her voice. "You swore to stay with me - always!" 

"Until I had to leave," he finished. He might've stopped adding that part somewhere along the way but found it too bloody tiring to keep repeating something so hurtful. 

"You don't have to leave," her panicky tone returned, "Robb, tell him-" 

"I do!" Gendry rounded on her, almost forgetting a bloody King still stood there gaping at them. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace." He lowered his voice but kept it from sounding kind in any way. "I have to go, I'm not your toy Arya, and I'm not the son of some king: I'm a bastard. I don't know nothing about this world inside your castles and I don't want to know. You highborn play your games and the rest of us get caught up without a choice. I have a choice now: I'm leaving come morning." 

"You truly are a bastard," she sneered quietly, still no trace of tears in her eyes. Arya never cared about him as much as he did for her: even now, she couldn't cry even one little drop for him. It worked out better like this, he supposed. Good, she would forget him quickly, no reason for two hearts to break. 

"You're wrong, milady." He didn't care anymore what the king thought: Gendry stepped close to Arya and smirked unkindly in her face. "I could've had you but I didn't, try not to make it so easy for the next fellow." He turned away, yanked the door open, and launched himself through it as Arry followed hot on his heels. 

"I'll kill you!" Her scream echoed down the halls and rang inside his mind, sounding like she meant every word. Were death threats her way of telling him she would miss him? Knowing Arya, as well as anyone could know her, it might be likely. 

"You already have," he whispered to himself, unwilling to wipe the tears pouring down his face, afraid she might see.

"Arya!" The king's call carried down the hall after small footfalls retreating in the other direction. "Arya, wait! Gendry!" Seemingly, the king needed to extend Gendry's misery and shame. "Hold on there!" 

"Yes, Your Grace." Gendry hated the way his speech wavered as he swallowed the urge to throw a proper fit like a suckling infant. It hurt so much: more than he expected it would and he thought about it quite a lot. He assumed that he was prepared to be separated from and hated by her: and couldn't be more wrong. 

"Bugger titles right now." The king used his soothing voice when he stepped in Gendry's path and saw his tears. "I saw what you did, even if she couldn't." The young man ran a hand through his curly hair and looked away. "Thank you for that." 

"Don't," Gendry's voice had a deadly edge bordering on outright disrespect. "Your Grace." 

"I understand how you must feel." What did a king, raised all his life in a castle, know about his pain?! "But it really is for the best-"

"You don't," he rasped through his swollen throat, "know how I feel." Gendry braced one hand on the cool stone wall and stumbled against it. "I just cut out my heart and threw it at the only person I ever loved." A sob broke up his words but he fought through the tears. "Fuck 'for the best' and doing things 'the right way', I just don't want her to hate me." He slid down the wall, collapsing against it, out of breath and unsure how to keep living. "I can't let her hate me."

"Stay for a time." The King crouched down beside Gendry. "Make peace with her before leaving. She's a smart girl: she will realize why it has to be this way." The young man hung his dark curls and sighed unhappily. "And for what it's worth: I am sorry and I do understand." 

"Thank you," he replied unthinkingly, "Your Grace." 

"There is one condition." King Robb's hard stare pierced Gendry's eyes. "If I ever see your hands on my sister again, I'm taking them. Blacksmiths need their hands." 

"Ye-yes, Your Gr-grace." Gendry accepted the king's help to rise and followed numbly behind a man ordered to show him where to sleep. He ignored the chamber's surroundings, not planning on getting comfortable, and collapsed onto the fluffy bed. Everything about the castle made him feel ill at ease but he had to stay. At least until Arya accepted the truth: they couldn't stay together and they ought to part as friends. Or until she actually killed him.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/prayer/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=181210349)

# Robb

He paced the halls, listening to his wife's wailing as her cries rose in tempo. Screams were a comfort, he only felt frightened when it grew quiet and the Septas' voices rose above their usual murmuring. Robb stopped pacing, staring at the door when the shrill screaming muted to deathly silence. The moment stretched on as his heart yearned for a single sound: nothing came to reassure him.

Enduring the soundless torture became intolerable: he clenched his hands into fists and stared at the heavy oak door in his way. He took one step, then another, reaching out his hand as his heavy footfalls filled the stillness and echoed down the hall. A firm but gentle grasp on his shoulder rotated Robb toward his squire's concerned expression.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace." Olyvar sighed heavily with a shake of his head. "You'll only be in the way. Let the Septas care for Merry, she's in good hands." Robb studied the door, the grain running down the length, dreading every possible reason for the silence. She could be dying: or already gone.

"This has been difficult for her," he heard himself say, startled to hear such a rough sound uttered from his own throat. Oly grabbed ahold of Robb's other shoulder and dragged him from the door.

"Merry is stronger than you think," he soothed, leading Robb from the deafening soundlessness. Part of him was grateful for the chance to escape. The coward inside him feared guilt would haunt his entire life if she did not survive this birth. "There is nothing you can do for her now."

"That's not true," Robb felt a sudden clarity as he pulled out of his squire's hold. "I'll be in the Godswood, call me if there is news."

"I will," Oly promised, promptly returning to stand post outside the silent chamber. Robb wanted to run through the halls but kept control over his feet and ignored his trembling hands. The walk to the godswood seemed the longest of his life: then it was abruptly over. He stood in front of the heart tree, gazing at the carved face without taking notice of the woods around him, and fell to his knees.

"I know you aren't jealous like the seven," he spoke aloud the first words that came to mind. "That's why I've come to you." Robb tore his eyes from the carved countenance to land on a pale gnarled root jutting up from the dark soil. "I'm not the most devout man, I didn't even wed her beneath a weirwood tree, but you know I took Merry as my wife."

"She has suffered because of me," he knew the old gods were all seeing. Likely, they knew Merry's pain much better than he did, yet it felt right to confess his sins. "I promised to take care of her and protect her: I made her unhappy instead." He locked eyes with the weirwood's visage and was calmed for once instead of unnerved. "Please, I beg you to use whatever power you have to help her and our child."

He closed his eyes and stayed kneeling before the tree for what seemed like hours, repeating his prayer to both the old gods and the new. When he opened his eyes, he seemed transported to another place, yet the heart tree appeared unchanged. Everything looked transformed, more beautiful, yet stayed exactly the same. A hazy tranquility settled over the godswood and Robb felt his eyes opened for the first time.

His new sight saw past the shaded gloom of the redwoods growing around the weirwood almost protectively. Ferns and flowers flourished, creating a lush green carpet under the canopy. All around were the tittering songs of birds and the babbling melody of a nearby brook. 'All will be well': the message was clear, humbling Robb.

"Thank you," he whispered, unable to raise his voice for fear of spoiling his newfound calm. "For Arya: it's like a dream that she came back. Thank you for any help you gave her." Robb felt lighthearted enough to laugh at himself. "I never take the time to pray yet I receive so many blessings. Father would want me to say it was all in your hands: I can't be my father, so I hope you can accept me as I am."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/new_life/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=182957013)

# Merry

"You are doing fine." Her goodmother tried to sooth her but Merry knew it to be a lie, she would die in this birthing bed. "Good girl, you are doing so well." Lady Catelyn wiped a cool cloth across Merry's forehead and smiled down at her. "Your child is anxious to meet you, my dear. It took a full day and night to bring Robb into this world. Soon you will be holding your own babe in your arms and this will all be worth it."

"I don't think I can," she protested stronger than she assumed possible, yet meant her words. Is this the agony my mother felt before she died?! 'Gods, take me now, end my suffering!' Death must be better than this torture! She shrieked as another pain slashed like a broadsword from thighs to chest. Merry gripped her goodmother's hand hard, yet the woman's determined stare never flinched.

"You can and you will," the lady commanded. Merry remained unconvinced that she had any chance of seeing this birth through. The pain was too great, she had been too weak for so long, no strength left to see this child born. A feeling of being wrenched apart tore through her body and made her heart thunder in her chest - a scream seized in her throat. They said her mother's poor heart simply stopped the moment she gave birth.

"I can see the head," a soft voice announced, "Your Grace. Push now, slow and steady!" Merry obeyed the order, unaware of the source of her strength. "That's it, keep pushing..." Some instinct took over and a ravenous desire to live overcame her senses. She clenched down on her teeth and bore down with everything she had. Then the burden released and she felt the child come into the world. It was over... If this was her time... she was ready to go.

"Septa Bonnard, hurry," hushed voices crowded around the child. Merry struggled to sit up against Lady Catelyn's insistent push. Why was the child not crying? One of the half-dozen healers remained to clean and care for her, yet Merry's concern persisted beyond her own well-being.

"What is the matter?" She could scarcely hear her own low demand it herself as fear gripped her throat with an icy hand. "What's wrong?! Please-" She cried out as another pain gripped her stomach, causing her to slump back into the mattress. She felt cool hands between her legs again and heard a soft gasp of shock.

"It's as you thought, Septa! There's another!"

"Your Grace," Septa Bonnard suddenly possessed an authoritative quality unexpected from the gentle woman. "You are having a second child, you cannot quit yet." Merry had no time to be surprised or even dismayed by the news before another urge to push overwhelmed her thoughts. "Wait," the Septa commanded, "do not push yet, wait until I say so."

"I must..." Merry's body screamed at her to finish giving birth as soon as possible. Her mind was nearly breaking with the effort to hold back!

"Your Grace you must wait!" A few moments passed and felt like an eternity. "Almost there, alright now, push!" The building wrenching pressure between her legs built as she used the last of her strength. "That's it, we are almost there." The second time Merry felt a child leaving her body hurt no less than the first but it ended quickly. Her heart pounded in her chest, reminding her that she still lived.

"Why won't they cry?" She voiced the morbid concern aloud when instinct and fear no longer consumed her mind. "Goodmother." Lady Catelyn observed worriedly over the Septas' shoulders, all gathered around the infants. "Catelyn!" She tugged on the woman's hand to grab her attention, panic setting in. "Are they...?" The tiniest of wails interrupted Merry's speculation, drawing all of her focus to the sound. 

Another weak cry soon joined the first, as if jealous of their sibling's ability. She wanted nothing more than to see her babies but the realities had to be taken care of first. She struggled to stay awake as she and her birthing bed were stripped and replaced. Once clean and redressed, an excitement buzzed through her, a renewed energy. Merry was close to begging to hold her children when the moment finally arrived.

"Oh Gods..." Her heart stopped when two Septas walked over to her bedside, handing her one child and the other to Lady Catelyn. Merry's eyes darted from the warm bundle in her arms to the one her goodmother held. The woman gently sat on the bed to hold the other child close. "Oh my dear sweet Gods..." Merry made no move to wipe away the tears flowing down her cheeks as she peered at one tiny wrinkled faces.

"Two girls, Your Grace." Septa Bonnard never sounded so proud and satisfied. "They are small and frail and will need constant care. But, they will flourish in time." The woman walked closer and leaned over to peek at the infant. "The Gods have blessed you."

"They have," she breathed, running a finger down the impossibly soft cheek of... her daughter. The child's mouth sought the fingertip, trying to latch on, and the Septa noticed.

"Hungry already? A good sign," the woman extended her hands to reach for the child. Merry glared at the Septa and pushed aside her chemise to offer her breast, which the tiny baby accepted greedily. "Your Grace, we have a wet-nurse waiting, you do not have to-"

"I will," Merry leveled a defiant stare at the woman. "I require assistance to keep up with their demand, yet I intend to feed them myself."

"Of course, Your Grace," the Septa bowed and left Merry to admire the new lives she brought into the world. Hushed tears fell down Lady Catelyn's face, gazing at her granddaughter as if she were the most precious child ever born. 

"Has someone gone to find-?" Before she could finish questioning his whereabouts, the chamber door opened and Robb burst inside. He gaped dumbfounded at the child she fed as his eyes darted to the infant in his mother's arms.

"Two?!" A prideful grin broke over his features as he strode across the room to hover beside the bed with tears shining in his eyes. "Merry," he lifted his loving gaze from their daughter, "are you well?"

"I will recover," her determination and will to live never felt stronger. "Come, husband," she glanced down at the free space by her side, "meet your daughters."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/understanding/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=181039328)

# Brienne

The prison of Riverrun was better than some others she had seen, above ground: well, mostly above ground. Either way, the cells had windows so at least there was some much-needed sunshine. Despite the better accommodations, the kingslayer did not cease his endless complaints and otherwise disagreeable behavior.

"Brienne of Tarth, tell me something of yourself." He was bored again, she could tell by his resigned tone, replacing the mocking she usually heard. Poor man had to lower himself to talk to the likes of her, so sorry to bore you, Ser Jamie. "There must be an interesting tale or two. A woman, playing at being a knight should have had a few good fights."

"It is ignoble to brag about one's accomplishments." Brienne admitted inwardly that she felt the passing of time just as painfully as her prisoner did. She recalled a good tale, and felt generous enough to share it. "However, there was this one big ugly fellow that I had it out with who-"

"Lady Brienne." Olyvar Frey, the King's squire, called her name as he approached. He was a pleasant enough lad, always courteous, unlike some others she could name.

"Olyvar," she greeted him with a smile, "good to see you."

"News from the castle, my lady." The skinny, long-faced lad beamed up at Brienne. "Her Grace has given birth to twins," his smile fell before adding, "both girls."

"The young wolf is twice the failure." The kingslayer found his sarcastic attitude, clearly relieved of the boredom plaguing him earlier. Just: 'wonderful'.

"Shut it, you," she hissed at the snickering man before turning back to Olyvar with a smile. "That is delightful news, thank you for informing me. Please convey my congratulations to King Robb and Queen Merry."

"I will," the squire bowed before flashing a toothy grin. "Be seeing you, my lady." Olyvar turned on his heel to head out of the prison and she felt envious of his ability to leave.

"That foolish boy is besotted with you," Ser Jaime chuckled as he watched the young man leave the dungeon.

"Don't be ridiculous," she waved a hand in the squire's direction. "He is only polite."

"He's a Frey," he said sardonically, "they are never polite without a reason." Ser Jaime hooted with laughter as he scanned Brienne up and down. "He wants to take a long climb up the Tall Tower of Brienne."

"Stop that filth this instant," she banged a fist against the bars of his cage. "Pig!" She did not care if the insult was childish. "He's little more than a lad and the King's squire!" What's more: Brienne would never dream of letting some pimply squire in her bed.

"Not your type, then?" He grinned at her, making Brienne wonder why she put up with his nonsense.

"Certainly not," she shivered and tried to block the disturbing mental images coming to mind.

"Go on," he urged, yet Brienne had no idea what so she just regarded him warily and lifted her brow in confusion. "Who's your type? You must have some notion of your perfect man, every woman does." He cocked his head to the side and grinned. "Men are the same about women."

"Fine," she turned away again: merely being steadfast in her guarding duties. "What's yours?" Brienne wished away the warmth settling in her cheeks, not truly wanting to continue their conversation but driven by boredom.

"Oh, that's easy," he scoffed lightheartedly. "She's exactly like me in every way: flawlessly attractive, quick-witted, and stronger than everyone else."

"He said from inside his cage," she retorted.

"Ugh," he groaned as if in pain, "I have to give you that." Ser Jaime laughed good-naturedly. "Good one: I walked right into it."

"Except you can't walk anywhere," Brienne turned around to grin at him through the bars, just in time to see Ser Jaime roll his eyes to the ceiling.

"Because I'm inside a cage," he raised an eyebrow and laughed before jerking his chin in her direction. "Go on then, let's hear your ideal man." Brienne hesitated: fairly certain this was yet another opportunity for the kingslayer to mock her. Ser Jaime raised his manacled hands to rub his face and puffed out a breath. "Gods, have I grown this bored?"

"If you don't want to hear." Brienne started turning around to continue her duty.

"No!" He reached out his hands even though he could never touch her through the bars. "I do," he smirked in a strangely bashful way, giving a boyish quality to his features despite his thick beard. "I certainly do," he humbly bowed his head. "I won't mock you, I swear."

"All right." Brienne continued facing away from Ser Jamie, not able to meet his eyes as she answered. "I suppose he would be honest, loyal, and hardworking-" He snorted rudely, causing her head to snap back so she could scowl at the man.

"You're describing the perfect squire," he teased. "What do you want in a man? How about his coloring or height?"

"I don't care much about appearance," she answered honestly, staring straight ahead and away from him.

"That's a lie," he grumbled like a child disappointed with their portion of sweets after eating all of their vegetables. "Everyone cares."

"Do you want to hear it or not?" Brienne was starting to feel annoyed with herself for allowing this line of conversation to take place.

"Please," he sounded bored, "continue."

"I want what everyone wants," she admitted quietly. "To be loved for who I am, any man who could do that is the perfect man for me." Brienne exhaled and stood up straighter. "Mock me if you want: at least I am honest."

"You're right, my lady." His voice deepened whenever he was serious but it took on a bitter note with his next words. "That's what everyone wants: even us monsters, every beating heart wants love."

"Thank you for not mocking me." She hoped this might be the start of some civility between herself and the man she guarded: it certainly would make things easier.

"So, tell me Brienne, in all seriousness," he paused to gaze up at her and his eyes shined with sincerity. "Are you going to fuck that Frey boy?"

"Go to the seventh hell, kingslayer." Brienne felt foolish to believe he would take a genuine interest in her. A few times during his captivity, he seemed to open his true self and reveal a glimmer of the man behind the crude mocking and insufferable arrogance. This was not one of those times.

"Give the boy a chance," he insisted with a laugh. "It might be true love!" She spun around to glare at him, putting her hands up in surrender.

"Why do you continue to antagonize me when I am the only person you have to talk to?" Her sincere entreaty genuinely seemed to puzzle him: the kingslayer's blonde eyebrows knitted together and he frowned.

"Why?" He tilted his head up with a haughty sneer. "Because it's fun." Brienne made a disgusted noise in her throat as she evaded his arrogant expression. "You hate me: you don't even know me and you hate me. It makes me feel better to watch your squirm up on your high horse."

"My high horse?!" Brienne could not believe her ears. "You're the most arrogant man I've ever known and that is really saying something."

"I'll take that as a complement," he grinned.

"You would," she huffed.

"See?" He made an insistent gesture with his manacled hands, causing them to jangle. "You think you know what's going on inside my head: you haven't got a clue." Ser Jaime pounded his fists into his chest with enough force to look painful. 

"That's not-"

"At least I make some attempt at conversation," he snorted a disgusted sound. "Most of the time you ignore me until I 'antagonize' you. Don't pretend that your sneering disdain is some kind of reward unto itself."

"Well I-" Stunned by his words, Brienne braced her hands against the prison bars and gazed down at her overlarge feet. "Forgive me if I've hurt your feelings, I can't help the way I feel about the deeds you've done."

"And if I deny doing them?" His question carried a challenge but none of the honesty she had come to recognize.

"I will assume you are lying," she heaved a sigh and met his eyes again. "The only time you don't lie is when you mention her, and that is not often."

"Her?" His brow furrowed before relaxing, this time he was the one to look away. "Ah, it's usually considered impolite to flaunt one's incestuous love affair but since you already know." Ser Jaime shook his head and glanced back towards Brienne. "I suppose it is just one more thing about me that disgusts you."

"Not really." Brienne gave him a small smile to let him know she was not making fun of him. "We have agreed on one thing this entire time stuck together: every heart wants love."

"That's immensely understanding of you, Brienne of Tarth." Ser Jaime tried to keep his manner light but there was gruffness in his throat betraying some deeper emotion. "Are things more open-minded down on the Sapphire Islands?"

"No, but I know a thing or two about not fitting in. Although," Brienne licked her lips as curiosity got the better of her. "In truth, it is hard to imagine falling in love with one's sibling."

"I suppose for others it is, but it felt natural," he shrugged, "I feel a slight shame about not feeling ashamed at all." A smile pulled at his lips as he stared off into nothingness, lost in a memory far gone from the cage he sat in. "I always loved her and would give anything for her."

"Then I envy both of you," she told him sincerely.

"You've never been in love?" His query sounded genuine but she grew uncomfortable with the topic, reminded of Renly, so she turned her back once more.

"Not with anyone who could love me back," she replied softly. Brienne did not elaborate on her answer and Ser Jaime did not press her any further. She heard him rustling behind her, recognizing the sound of him lying down.

"Think I'll get some rest," he mumbled through a yawn, clearly less perturbed by their conversation. "Guard well, Brienne."

"Sleep well," she murmured, "Ser Jaime."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/meeting/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=181210786)

# Shae

The lavish gardens of the Red Keep could not be further removed from the slums where she spent her childhood. If she looked over the wall towards Flea Bottom, it seemed more familiar. Sunlight poured through walls of trees, grown to shade the winding walkways. Birdsong filled the air with an evening tune, calling for their lovers to come back to the nest. Unluckily, she was not meant to enjoy these gardens - they were not here for her biarves.

It annoyed her - that Tyrion had no real feelings for her - somehow it actually bothered her. Plenty of men and boys told her they loved her since she reached twelve years. None of them meant the words, and she never once accepted their declarations as truth. In the years since, she had handsome men, deformed men, stupid men, and clever men - none of them tugged on her heart the way her little lion did. She loved him in her own way and now that's over.

After the siege, Shae asked him to leave with her - something he would have done for a highborn ladylove - and he refused. It ended from that moment, even if she could not admit it to herself then. Weakness angered her and she embraced the anger because it cleared her head. Her loyalty should stay with herself as it always had been. She snickered aloud, imagining the self-righteous tutting of fools concerned with being 'good'.

Aw, was it 'good' to put the person she loved before her own self? Why should she when nobody put her first in return? No one puts a whore first. A whore is always last in everything, no need to cry over it, that is the way of things. Shae comes first to Shae and then the zoklaitsos, her lady comes next. Clinging to the anger like a shield, she reminded herself to hide her fear of the man she walked to meet.

Oh yes, she truly feared this adere man - slippery like an eel. Because he is an unknown and genderless, without family ties, his motives are never clear. The spider, they call him, and they try to hide it but he frightens them all. Shae walked into the Godswood, making sure no one saw her. It was time for the evening meal and most lords, ladies, and their servants were dining or serving. She swallowed a surprised gasp when he stepped from the shadows.

"Thank you for meeting me, my dear." Lord Varys bowed, waiting for her behind a hedge, and beckoned her to walk alongside him in the godswood. Even by asking to meet in this place, could be a subtle threat from this man. His face remained impossible to read and if he ever told a lie, Shae could not hear it. Whores, the good ones, were masters of lies - the spider, a eunuch, lived beyond the domain of whores.

"My lord," she practiced the curtsey learned in a private lesson with the golden daria lioness. It is smart to take advantage of whatever opportunities life offers.

"Please, we have no need of titles between us foreigners." He led her down a shady unoccupied path through the garden. "I have found a way to help your lady leave Kings Landing." Varys wasted no time getting to the point and Shae appreciated that about the man. "The Tyrells are open to a match between Lady Sansa and Ser Loras."

"And give that family exactly what they want." Shae almost laughed at how clear the spider's intentions were. So, he seeks favor with the family gaining power rather than the one losing a war? Lady Sansa needed protection, not to be moved about like a cyvasse piece.

"Most favors are mutually beneficial, my dear." Varys' cloying voice and soft words did not sway her. "She will be safe," he insisted, noticing the doubt on her face. "Her wellbeing is what matters... I could arrange for you to join her, if you wish." The spider weaves such a tangled web, was his offer another string she could be caught on?

"There are other offers to help my lady," she reminded him, "why trust you and not them?" Shae would never be so foolish as to trust Lord Baelish, even without the warning from his red haired whore. Varys was even more dangerous.

"Listen very carefully," he stopped and faced her, hands folded and head bowed. "I say this without a trace of humor: Littlefinger may be the most dangerous man in Kings Landing." Shae laughed, only more amused by his puzzled expression.

"That is funny," she lifted an eyebrow at him, "I thought the same thing about you."

"I am flattered, of course." A smile came to his lips that, to Shae, seemed genuine: though she could not point to what made it different from his usual expression. Then it disappeared when he wrinkled his brow in a serious way and sighed. "There are worse places for her ladyship to end up... much worse."

"I think My Lady can say where she 'ends up'." Shae had heard enough and wanted to get back to attending her lady. "I will give her your message." She stopped walking and he turned to face her. "Unless this is not a request?"

"I assure you, I won't force Lady Sansa to leave." He tilted his head to the side and frowned. "Neither should you try to convince her to stay."

"You may know many things - but don't think you can see through me." Shae seethed at his judgment and arrogance, presuming to understand her bond with Lady Sansa. "You want to make use of my lady - I am the only one who wants nothing from her!"

"Don't you?" The spider frowned at her, hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe. Shae gave no reply - her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she strode away from Varys to return to her lady's chambers. She hurried only because there were many things she needed to tell Lady Sansa. Not the eunuch's words - they were worth less than beqes emos kyndrir and smelled worse. This night, her lady faced a much fiercer animal.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/gamble/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=181213938)

# Sansa

She ought not to be standing where she stood! Her feet had better turn around and run all the way to her chambers. 'What's done is done', she told herself or rather... he told her. Of course, it was Sandor's voice in her head, sometimes even saying her own thoughts. What silly musing nonsense was she prattling to herself about?! She should be shaking with fear, waiting outside the Queen's door like a lamb to the slaughter.

The decision to meet the queen without being summoned was not made carelessly... at least that is what she told herself. Sansa Stark refused to break, tonight her courtesy, or lack thereof if needs be, would be made of Valyrian steel. Honestly, what was the worst that Cersei could do? Lock her in the dungeon? At least then, she could see Sandor. And listen to him carp on about what a silly little bird she was to get herself locked up in a 'fucking' dark hole. 

Sansa gasped aloud, hearing her own internal voice using vulgar profanity! Sandor truly had a bad influence on her, insufferably passive and brutally honest about everything. Why did she like those things about him? No time to ponder, the steel casing her spine melted upon hearing the queen agree to an audience with her. In a way, this terrifying woman was like a mother, she helped create the person Sansa had become since coming to King's Landing.

Cersei coated her promises in syrupy sugar and delivered her lies even more sweetly. The foolish child Sansa had been believed every word that dripped from her beguiling smile. 'What would Sandor do?' That had become her mantra, mostly because it amused her to envision herself cutting off her adversary's head with a broadsword. Then, what would Sandor say? A string of bawdy oaths came to mind, words a proper lady should not even know.

The door opened and golden candlelight spilled into the dim hallway, making her heart freeze within her chest. Her shameful thoughts should make her blush, yet brought a wicked smile to her lips when she truly needed tears! Cersei herself has educated Sansa about 'women's weapons', yet the queen believed herself the exception. Taking in a deep breath, her feet starting moving towards the woman she feared most in the world.

Hands clasped modestly and eyes glued to the floor, Sansa conjured up the image of her own smiling mother. A mother who never thought to warn her daughter of any harsh realities. Perfect... she felt bitter loneliness, mild betrayal, and just a dash of hopeless longing. Those feelings achieved the expression she wanted to show Cersei, let it play with her mother's heart if she even has one. A servant pulled out a seat next to the Queen at the dining table, which was laid out with aromatic delicacies.

With difficulty, she ignored her growing hunger to leave room for thirst, however not yet. The Seven always reward those who practice patience. Courtly pleasantries fell from her lips without thought, following proper decorum with morose depression. Finally, the golden beauty beside her did what she does best... manipulate anyone she can sink her claws into. Sansa offered herself up as a weak and injured little bird. A slice of cake, my queen?

"Here, my sweet, a drink will lighten your spirits." Without waiting for an agreement, Cersei filled Sansa's goblet nearly to the brim and placed it in her hands. 'Hold your position', a gruff voice echoed in her mind, 'a mere look could give everything away to a crafty bitch like the queen'. She feigned hesitation and simply looked at the red liquid. Cersei's graceful fingers supported the base of the glass and tipped it towards Sansa's lips, it would be drunk or spilt.

Sansa gulped the entire goblet, continuing to drink long after the queen ceased to tip the glass. The bittersweet liquid burned like fire in her chest. When she finished, Sansa sucked in a shuddering gasp and looked at the queen's approving face. Cersei seemed to relax, confirming the suspicion that the queen did not see Sansa as a threat. The woman had perhaps a small amount of sympathy for her as well, a mistake that exposed the usually cold woman's vulnerability.

"Your Grace," Sansa slurred her words purposefully, "you have always been honest with me." The queen smiled and raised an eyebrow before moving to pour Sansa another goblet. She lifted her cup again and took only a small sip but tipped the glass back further than necessary. "I have come to you this night to beg for your advice."

"My little dove, ask me anything." Cersei sounded so sincere it nearly broke her heart for wanting to believe the beauteous woman. How could anyone so radiant be dark and disgusting on the inside? Was the queen always so hateful or was she also an innocent girl once? Could Sansa someday become just as nasty if she married Joffrey? She shook her head to rid that wretched thought and stumbled through her well-rehearsed words.

"Your Grace, please forgive my boldness," her rushed words were trembling but she hoped it worked in her favor. "I cannot bear to be used by Joffrey when I will not even be his wife!" The words flew out and she peered through bleary eyes to gauge the reaction of the queen but could not tell. 'Mother, save your child in her time of need! Sandor, what would you do?' Blasphemy, to be sure...

Yet it was almost like a prayer to the one entity who made her feel protected, even when he was locked away. The guilt over his imprisonment brought more useful weeping to her eyes although she made sure to give the impression that she fought them. Sansa did not know Sandor well enough to understand his mind but she did think he would be proud of her for using her 'chirping' so cleverly. Lannisters only like one kind of song, any tune that further inflated their over-puffed egos.

"I promise to always be loyal to the Lannister family... How can I not be, when my own brother refuses to trade Ser Jaime for my return?" Sansa clasped her hands together and tears fell at the stinging truth behind her words. Robb, her own brother and possibly even her mother did not think she was worth losing the Lannister heir as their prisoner. She understood Ser Jaime's value as a hostage, yet it hurt all the same.

"Everything that has happened will have been for nothing if I do not marry your son." Sansa made sure to look Cersei straight in the eye when she told her this, for it was not a lie. "I want to be his Queen and the mother of princes and princesses." A lie of omission, concerning who the father of her children would be. Gods be good! She almost smiled! 'Keep it together, little bird'. In the hazy candlelight, Queen Cersei's green eyes glittered at Sansa over her golden goblet. 

It was almost stunning how lovely the woman appeared, like a goddess... or a demoness of temptation. The queen appraised the crying girl in front of her and Sansa held her breath, waiting for condemnation or deliverance. 'Please Mother, thaw this beautiful queen's frozen heart', it was a woman's heart after all.

"Sweetling," The queen took one of Sansa's hands between both of her own and gave a small squeeze. "You are tired." Cersei's face formed a pleasant mask and Sansa was far too weary and drunk to make a guess at the woman's true feelings. "Come and escort Lady Sansa back to her room," she beckoned a servant, "see she gets there safely." With that command, Sansa was whisked away, wondering if her efforts made any difference at all. 'Fuck if I know, little bird.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to take a few weeks off because my left hand was starting to go numb and painful again. Though frustrating, it seems prudent to slow down my updates to give me time to work on strength training so that I can avoid another recurrence of this injury. It's annoying but: It Is What It Is. I'm dedicated to fully overcoming this hurdle and becoming stronger for it - literally. Thanks for leaving much-needed support down in the comments. <3


	14. Lullabies of Vengeance

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/rainstorm_over_riverrun/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184699282)

# Gendry

Princess Arya stood in the doorway of the forge, dressed like a proper lady except needle hung from the leather frog on a sash around her hips. And she was glowering in a highly unladylike way: her scowl only deepened when their eyes met. She threw her glare to the ground, only looking up with Master Blackthumb cleared his throat. 

"Anything I can help you with, Princess?" The burly man raised a bushy eyebrow, eyes darting between her and Gendry with a disapproving frown. Arya certainly made a pretty princess, wearing a dress the exact shade of her eyes and her hair was pulled into a small braid. At one point, it might've been tidy, but short strands of choppily grown-out hair came loose and curled away from her head. The wildness suited her: The Wolf Princess. 

"No," she shook her head and almost forgot to add a polite, "thank you." Arya met Gendry's gaze again and nodded once, jerking her chin over her shoulder to signal that he should follow. By the look on her face, it did not seem a request. He could feel Master Blackthumb's disapproving eyes on his back as they left the smithy. She led the way ahead of him, her skirt swirling around her quick steps.

He wondered where she was taking him as they walked past the stables and headed towards the postern gate. As they walked over the lowered drawbridge, he worried she might throw him out without anything but the clothes on his back. After they crossed the moat she turned sharply to follow the wall, leading them away from King Robb's army. Gendry cast a wary eye up at the darkening sky: a storm was moving in but she showed no sign of stopping. 

His hand kept reaching up to touch her, only to fall limp by his side, remembering his dirty fingers shouldn't touch the Princess. Likewise, his tongue licked the inside of his teeth, useless to speak a single word in case one formed inside his empty head. Maybe she planned to follow through on her threat to kill him: he wouldn't even blame her. He'd known exactly how everything would end, making him a foolish coward for letting them pretend.

"His Grace told me to come make peace with you." Arry stopped and turned around, eyes landing on anything but him. "So here I am," she grumbled and crossed her arms, glaring down at a tall patch of grass. 

"This is how you make peace?" He only meant to tease, though maybe not the best thing to say since she winced like he cursed her. Gendry took a step forward but she matched him by moving away and leveled her eyes on him, dreary as the storm rolling in behind her. The wind pulled more hair loose from her braid and the hem of her dress flapped around her legs. A low dangerous rumble filled the sky: he opened his mouth to tell her they should head back. 

"Do you truly want to leave me?" Arry's hollow voice caught and pinned him, as if she pierced his heart with her thin sword. Her glassy stare never blinked, distracting him from the dangerous weather blowing their way. "I don't want to make it easy for you to leave - I want you to stay," the words fell flat delivered in a cool tone. 

"And do what: be yer personal blacksmith, Princess?" Gendry wanted to leave his own body and kick his own arse for being so bloody bitter but the words came pouring out. He'd been fighting and making up with Arya for so long, he didn't know how to just talk with her. Between her arrogance and his bullheadedness, they were like fire and ice. She surprised him by hanging her head and stumbling forward, closing the distance between them. 

"You would be mine." Arya reached out to him but pulled her hand back and pressed her fist over her heart. "My family." She looked up, seeming more a child than she ever had, with wide fearful eyes shimmering. A single raindrop landed on her face, rolling down her cheek like the tears she refused to cry. "Whatever you want to be - with me." The corners of her lips trembled, far from her usual arrogant smirk. "We could run away." 

"They won't let us, Arry." Gendry weakened, letting his eyes fall from her face to focus on the tiny dark spots appearing on her shoulders. A few more drops fell from the sky, landing on her hair and dress but she seemed not to notice. "You know that." 

"They would hunt us, all of them." She gripped the front of his tunic, pulling his attention back to her face. "My brother, the Lannisters, the Goldcloaks, but we could be together!" Her eyes darted from side to side, as if considering something, before settling on his again. "We could go to the Free Cities - I can go anywhere as long as I am with you." Arya pressed her forehead over his heart. "My family knows I'm free from the Lannister's claws, I don't have to give them my life as well." 

"I can't," he struggled to continue when he felt her tense and start to pull away. "I can't steal a Princess and run away with her." The rolling clouds darkened while her shining gaze blinked, turning blank and colorless. Gendry wished for the right words to explain but they all sounded like weak excuses in his head. "That's not me."

"Then," she stepped back, keeping her dead stare on him, "you really don't love me." Gendry's stomach turned at the assured way she said it, like he could never convince her that the exact opposite was true. The rain came like an icy sheet pouring down on top of them: both motionless and watching each other. 

"Arya," he shouted over the storm. "It's because I love you-" A blinding flash cut off his words as he felt a strike to his chest. The ground shook beneath his feet, sending him flailing back into darkness. As Gendry pushed himself to kneel, another crack of lightning lit up the tip of needle: just as it sliced into his chin. His eyes flew up to see a curtain of raindrops showering over Arya, doing nothing to haze the burning hatred in her gray eyes. 

"Don't follow me," no anger remained in her voice: no emotion to it at all. Arya lowered needle and stalked away without a glance back. He watched her walking back to the castle, dress soaked with rainwater. Gendry collapsed back onto the soggy earth, not caring he was trembling all over in the freezing rain. It hurt as he blinked into the fat heavy droplets, washing away the warm salty tears with cold hard pellets. 

The water splashed his face and over his arms, stinging like bees over every bit of uncovered skin, likely the best wash he could get. Pain was better than feeling nothing at all: the coldness in Arya's eyes seeped into his heart and froze it solid. Like the opposite of watching her fall in love with him, now she couldn't care less if he dropped dead. Maybe he lay there for longer than he thought because the storm seemed to blow over quick as it came. 

Waterlogged footsteps approached: too heavy to belong to Arry, though he hadn't counted on her coming back. A large, battle worn and scarred hand reached down over his face, extended in an offer to help him stand. Gendry lifted his head to see a man he only recognized in passing: Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. 

"You alright, lad?" An easy smile settled on the graying man's face as he hauled Gendry to his feet and looked over his sorry soggy state with a shake of his head. "Never been in love myself, seems like a bloody awful thing to do to someone." Ser Brynden clapped a hand around Gendry's shoulders and started leading him back toward the castle gate. "My niece has the fiery Tully temper, even without the hair." 

"I don't know why I stay here." Gendry babbled helplessly, the Blackfish seemed a nice enough fellow for not laughing at him. "Every time I go to pack, I think: 'she'll hate me once I'm gone, then she'll forget.' But I'll be thinking about Arya for the rest of my life, if she's happy or safe. Wondering 'what if'?" He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat.

"And? 'What if'?" The Blackfish pulled him to a stop, raising one gray eyebrow when Gendry gave no answer. "What if you actually made an effort to win my niece's hand instead of weeping in the rain?" 

"I can't do anything," Gendry mumbled, shuffling forward to avoid the older man's knowing look. "I'm just a blacksmith-" 

"You say that like it's an excuse!" Ser Brynden double-stepped to catch up. "I've seen your work, old Blackthumb is nervous over you - thinks you've come to steal his forge. Don't tell me I've seen all you're capable of." The man chuckled, a deep rumbling sound, reminding Gendry of a large cat purring. 

"So what: I'm good with a hammer." Gendry shook his head: never heard a more senseless thing in his whole life. "Even the best blacksmith in the Seven Kingdoms isn't good enough for a Princess." 

"I never put much stock in the order of things with highborn and lowborn." Easy for the son of a high lord to say, even a second son. "A sword in my hand, that's something I can understand. You forget the Smith is one of the Seven. Invention lad, that's an invaluable thing to a King, especially one fighting a war. Remind me now, who forges those pointy metal things we use to make war with?" 

"You think if I make the King in the North a pretty sword he'll gladly hand over his sister to the likes of me?" Gendry scoffed and crossed his arms for a proper sulk. Never in his life had he heard such laughable horseshit! 

"You have'ta earn it, lad!" The old knight pounded his palm even harder over Gendry's back, quickly gripping his shoulder to prevent him from stumbling. "You say you love her - are you unwilling to try? I aim to help you if I can, make sure King Robb hears good things about you - plant an idea or two and see if they grow." 

"Why help me?" Gendry had to wonder why Ser Brynden offered aid to the baseborn blacksmith who had his sights on the man's royal grandniece. It didn't make any bloody sense that this highborn knight was even talking to him! 

"A fair question," Ser Brynden let out another rumbling laugh. "Everyone knows the Blackfish is a romantic." The man sighed and eyed Gendry carefully with a considering look. "The girl is my favorite niece's daughter, my family. She walks around looking like the Stranger took her already but left her body. I have no children of my own to look after and I'd rather like to see her smile once." The man's words stabbed straight through Gendry's chest, cutting off his air. 

"Truly?" He never dared let himself believe Arry was anything more than disappointed and angry with him. 

"I'll tell you straight, young Gendry," the Blackfish sighed heavily. "I've seen that behavior in womenfolk enough times to know she's pining away. If you plan to leave, do it already and let her grieve proper for you." Gendry convinced himself that Arya's love for him was only a passing curiosity and he was taking what affection he could get while she gave it. He assumed he should leave for her own good, insulting her feelings and treating her like a child. Who was he really trying to protect? 

"I haven't really tried." Gendry whispered at first, unsure if he was losing his wits for daring to dream, but soon found himself gaining confidence. The worst that could happen: the King would send him to the wall. "I won't leave." As soon as he said the words, he realized that he never actually intended to go. Come what may, he would always try to stay by her side. "I'm going to win her." 

"That's the spirit," the knight's large hand squeezed Gendry's shoulder. "I knew I liked you for a reason." For the first time since before Arry threatened to kill him: Gendry smiled.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/regret/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184265716)

# Arya

Almost to her chamber, realizing she still held needle in her hand - Arya stopped moving to stare at the slender sword. Looking at it, she used to see Jon's face, handsome and smiling, now she only saw the fear in Gendry's eyes. He feared her and not without reason, some part of her wanted to slash open his throat and leave him bleeding on the ground. She shuddered and threw the weapon down with a clatter, the metallic scraping echoed down the dark empty corridor.

Her face was still wet - it was getting wetter - her hand found her cheek and the warm tears washing over it. She was crying! A low moan escaped her throat as she slumped against the wall, swallowing the bile rising from her stomach. Arya understood she was safe in Riverrun but her mind's eye was living through all of it again. The crowd roared for blood, louder than any sound she ever heard before, then father's indulgent approval - gone forever.

Even over the din of shouts and cheers, one sound rang out above the uproar - a plaintive wail of one heart being forever broken. Sansa's innocence and freedom - gone. Somehow seated on the floor, Arya wailed out her sorrow, shrieking at the unfairness of it all. Bran's dreams, Jon, Nymeria - all gone. Gendry was the one person she had done everything not to lose and that lying bastard planned to leave her all along! 

"Arya!" Mother's face, framed by cascades of loose red hair, appeared dreamlike before her blurry eyes. 

"Mother, help me," she begged, a fresh wave of tears pouring down her face and warming her skin. Arya heaved a shuddering breath and gripped the front of her mother's dress, soaking the fabric. She almost forgot that she was drenched from head to toe and shivering from the cold - she could not feel a thing. 

"What's wrong?" Mother's soft hands were everywhere, checking for a physical injury, yet none would be found. "Tell me, are you in pain?!" Her voice was pure panic, yet it penetrated Arya's murky awareness - her mother had lost just as much, she might understand! 

"Yes," her croaked answer faded to a pained whisper, "it hurts." Arya pulled so hard on her mother that the woman tumbled against the wall to sit on the ground next to her daughter. "Please help me," she pleaded in an unrecognizable little girl's voice. "I can't lose Gendry too - I love him." Mother stroked Arya's hair, drawing her daughter's face against her warm breast - the gentle drumming heartbeat calmed the broken sobbing. 

"I know," mother's soothing hushed voice pitched higher than usual, how it used to sound when Arya was injured as a child. "It will pass in time, you are so young..." The calm disappeared at those dismissive words, Arya ripped out of her mother's embrace and scrambled backwards. She stared in horror at the woman who brought her into the world, realizing that her mother was a stranger. 

"I've seen things - I've done things." Arya knew she ought to hold back and not sound so cold towards the only parent she had left. "I keep them from you to protect you." She still held out hope to make her mother understand, if she could only think of some way to explain! "Gendry was the reason I came home - why I stayed 'me' and didn't become someone else. Please," she pleaded, "help me convince Robb-" 

"Arya," mother looked away with something like shameful sadness overwhelming her features. "I have already made an agreement for your marriage." 

"I don't care!" At Arya's outburst, her mother held up a hand, shushing as her head swiveled around the dark corridor. "I won't be sold like a bitch for breeding," she grabbed her mother's arm tightly to redirect the woman's attention. "Just so Robb can wear a pretty piece of jewelry on his head." 

"Arya!" Familiar disappointment and anger found their way into mother's eyes. Arya recalled every time she was not good enough for this woman, which was far too often. "How dare you-" 

"Me?!" Arya sneered in disgust and released her mother's arm, unwilling to touch the woman any longer. "Who is this 'worthy' man you want to send me to, then?" 

"Elmar Frey," mother seemed no more pleased to give the information than her daughter was to receive it. "The youngest son of Lord Walder Frey." 

"Ah," Arya swallowed the filthy string of oaths she wanted to spew at her mother, "a Frey?" She chuckled at the absurdity and leveled a stare at her mother. "Is he anything like the 'prince' you chose for Sansa?" Arya ignored the way her mother flinched as tears filled her blue eyes - going for the killing blow. "Or is father to blame for that?" The tears overflowed from mother's eyes and ran down her pale cheeks and Arya felt nothing. 

"My poor, sweet girl," mother tried to twist Arya's anger into some weaker emotion. 

"I am not the child you sent to Kings Landing - without Gendry I would have never made it here." Arya was done playing their game and cared nothing for her mother's beloved rules that she had always defied. "He risked his life to help me return to you. If I've come home only to be separated from you again-" 

"That is the way of things, my girl." Some of the strength returned to mother's words but a deep sadness still lingered in her tone. 

"Not for me," Arya insisted quietly, "I make my own choices." She sighed - too tired to continue arguing when her decision was already set. "You have never been able to convince me to be a proper lady, why have you always assumed I would change?" She locked eyes with her distraught mother. "I would rather live with Gendry in the woods than in a castle with some Frey. I would rather be a happy blacksmith's wife than an unloved princess." 

Mother's eyes turned sharp, signaling that she clearly believed the threat and intention to follow through. All that needed to be said - and more - had been expressed. Without another word, Arya stood, retrieved her weapon, and ambled towards her chamber. It was never really her room so it would not be hard to leave the comfort of castle life.

Since arriving in Riverrun, she only missed spending her days and nights happily besotted with a stupid bull. Their grand adventure had changed her forever. Before, she never thought of herself as the kind of girl to lose her wits for love. Yet, that's exactly what she had become. Now she just had to think of a way to make amends with Gendry, if she had not already driven him away.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/loyalty/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184694539)

# Sansa

Sansa considered her appearance in the mirror, the very image of a Lannister supporter. A long golden ribbon twisted throughout her red tresses, swept into an intricate southron style. Her dress, a rich dusky crimson frock, trimmed with gold ribbon and brocade. Expecting the court summon, Sansa lay awake every night, speculating how Cersei might respond to her plea. Finally, the summons arrived and her endless hours of preparation and planning seemed insufficient.

She started to doubt every decision she made, fearing the resulting backlash more than anticipating a good outcome. So far, she failed miserably... causing Sandor's imprisonment and making Shae take risks by meeting with a mysterious benefactor. Months of plotting and scheming all depended on her ability to keep her wits for the next hour. Sansa had to give the performance of her life and not miss a single note, or risk forfeiting her life.

The walk to court took less time than ever and the announcement of her arrival came too soon. Taking a deep breath, she approached the throne with her back straight and her head bowed. In court, appearance is everything... even a warrior like Sandor knew to wear a proud aloofness that dared anyone to harm his liege. Behind Sansa, titters ran through the crowd and those who stood behind her stayed paramount in her mind.

Cersei may have lost her grip on the 'king' but he must have realized that appearing too wrathful and bloodthirsty gets a king killed. They called Aerys Targaryen II 'The Mad King' and Sansa wondered what they would eventually call Joffrey? 'The Brat King' her mind supplied, rumbled in Sandor's low voice. Even now, she imagined him standing in front of her, yet wished he stood behind her to behold her actual plan.

More than to appease the bastard king's preference, she styled her long hair deliberately to show off the back of her gown. Elaborate appliques of gossamer fabric decorated the rich crimson fabric, adorned with golden stitches. The entire decoration came together to form a golden lion facing a silver stag, Joffrey's sigil. The only difference was a crown around the lion's, just like the stag wore. 

A bold move to be sure, but Sansa felt right to be so forward in her flattery. The Lannisters were accustomed to deference so she had to prove herself not only harmless but also useful. Gossip around the Red Keep had turned from Joffrey's ineptitude and cruelty to his new betrothal. Sansa clung to the lofty goal of making the court of King's Landing adore her... as a source of gossip. They would see her as she wished to be seen, as a pitifully devoted girl cast who was aside for another. 

Their sympathy meant nothing, only making the gossip more interesting. She was not a real person to them, not a mistreated girl who lost her family. The people do not want boring guilt and pity... they want violence and passion. The titters and whispers grew louder as Sansa reached the front of the room and curtseyed. Bowing low, she bit her cheek to keep from smiling as an expected gasp rose from the crowd behind her, knowing what they saw. 

Light from a window above shone on her back to reveal a shimmering heart above Joffrey's sigil, stitched in brighter colors than her gown. A profession, loud and clear to any who had eyes to witness it... 'Sansa Stark loves Joffrey Baratheon'. The queen's next proclamation was most appropriate.

"Lady Sansa, your king has called you to court today," her voice rang out and the room hushed to hear her speak. "So that I may ask you to confess your true heart to His Majesty Joffrey Baratheon." This was Cersei's test, a challenge to captivate the easily preoccupied court and handle the capricious king. The queen wants to see Sansa control Joffrey, or prove herself stupid as the woman often accused.

"Yes, Sansa, confess." The little bastard king's familiar mocking smile required some effort to ignore. The throne is ugly, but the boy is quite charming to admire if he never opens his mouth. Sansa undoubtedly understood Joffrey better than Margery Tyrell did, and possibly even the queen. He is a Lannister, an inbred Lannister twice over, which is why he is so handsome and disgusting at the same time.

"Your Grace, in truth, I loved you from the moment I saw you ride through the gates of Winterfell." Gasps and titters spread throughout those gathered in court, and Sansa used the distraction to try to remember how she felt that day. Joffrey appeared handsome indeed, a true golden prince as if from a song. Yes, she could chirp Joffrey the most beautiful song, one even the hound might fall for. The thought brought a blush to her cheeks and she hoped it enriched her part as the 'maiden in love' she played.

"Every betrayal my traitorous family has made against your royal highness has broken my heart, because they caused you to stop loving me." Sansa thought of the day her father died, knowing it would bring tears to her eyes. "I am ashamed to admit I grew angry with you for not loving me anymore, even when I know my life is more than I deserve." Her tearful eyes rose to meet his mocking gaze, her lips parted and quivering just the way the little bastard king liked. 

Sansa observed his enjoyment of her flowing tears, her method of conveying that her pain could always belong to him. Joffrey liked nothing better than inflicting pain, so she offered herself up as the perpetual victim that he truly wanted in a wife. She bowed her head, remembering the night Lady died, and let the shame of betraying her sister fill her mind and play out on her face. 'Let him forget my one rebellion', she prayed, 'erase the single foolish threat I made against him.'

"I lost all hope when our engagement was broken, yet I understand that I deserve every punishment I receive." She emphasized the word 'punishment' with a whimper. Joffrey's hand tightened on the throne before covering his frown with a forefinger. Clearly, he still enjoyed making her cry and the thought of Sansa being out of his kingly reach had never crossed his dull mind. Dropping to her knees, she began to weep in earnest, using the pain of falling down on the stone floor.

"I beseech you, my once intended and always beloved King Joffrey!" Her vision blurred with tears, yet the hulking shape of the throne loomed unmistakably. Fixing her eyes on the throne a strange vision flitted through her mind, of someone else sitting on the throne, observing their subjects with righteous judgment. Her own fiery hair would contrast beautifully with the dull gray of the Iron Throne. 'You've gone mad, girl'... Sandor might be right, yet that thought only emboldened her.

"Please arrange a marriage for me that will be useful to your war efforts against my traitor brother," she pleaded loudly through a steady stream of tears. "Only, I beg you... send me away so that I do not have to watch my one true love wed another." Joffrey's usual smirk slipped when Sansa mentioned leaving the Red Keep.

"So, my lady, you want to get away from me, is that it?" The king mocked her, thinking it impossible for her to leave his evil clutches. Regardless of his unparalleled arrogance, she must convince him that his ownership of her was in danger. There had to be some truth to her assertion that she had value as a trade. Joffrey had to be convinced that his power to keep her did not outweigh the war effort.

"Oh no, Your Grace!" She leaned forward on her hands, assuming the meekest possible position and gazed up into his leering face. "I would never willingly leave your side! Please understand that I only want to be of some use to you." Sansa held her breath as Cersei leaned over and spoke to her son in an aloof tone.

"The girl could be useful for an advantageous match." Though his mother spoke softly, Joffrey recoiled from her as if slapped across his smug face. He fixed an expression of murderous rage on the queen, his wide eyes and exaggerated scowl was almost laughable. Sansa wasted no gratitude on Cersei... the woman never did anything unless it served herself first and foremost.

"No!" Joffrey screeched his displeasure, his voice cracking as he continued. "Sansa is not going anywhere!" The entire court fell silent in the moment the king leapt from his throne and pointed at Sansa. "Dog - escort Lady Sansa to her room!" Joffrey's teeth ground together as continued to glare at Sansa. "Everyone get out!" He screamed the last order, sending lords and ladies scurrying out of the throne room.

It took Ser Meryn an awkward moment to follow the king's order, Sandor's absence forgotten in His Grace's tantrum. Realizing his mistake, Joffrey insolently slunk into the throne and stared murder at his mother. The glorious queen only smiled back at her son with motherly pride. Most of those in attendance had scurried away when commanded and Sansa was among the last to leave.

"I'm not letting her go anywhere," Joffrey whined. Sansa imagined his wormy lips pouting, yet Cersei's response was too hushed to hear. They paid no attention to her dress! Should she be grateful for their distraction? Perhaps it was for the best, she never expected this part of her plan would actually appease the queen and her son. Thankfully, the ladies and lords in attendance had whispered loudly of her beauty and loyalty.

Sansa felt one step closer to victory, struggling to maintain a stoic expression in front of Ser Meryn until he escorted her safely to her room. Finally alone, she ran to jump into the bed fully clothed, letting out a small squeal of joy into her pillow. If only Sandor had been there, he would have loved watching Joffrey squirm on his throne. Would he have been impressed with her flattery and chirping? Would he have found her beautiful?

She bolted upright in bed, pressed a hand to her galloping heart, and blushed as she recognized the signs of infatuation. Several boys and men had set her heart racing madly before, including that foul little king when still a golden prince. Sansa giggled aloud when comparing Sandor to every other man she had secretly adored. He was no noble knight or golden prince, yet the way he permeated her every thought was unlike anything she felt before.

Unexpectedly, her preference in men had become so drastically different! Was this change a result of receiving her moonblood and becoming a woman? Not just her body transformed completely that morning. Her mind shattered, yet the tiny broken pieces collected and reshaped, granting an abrupt clarity and strange tranquility. She came to understand the motives of the people around her and for the first time began to experience real empathy instead of mere pity.

Everyone at Winterfell used to call her 'good' and 'kind'... Sansa shook her head with embarrassment. She had been such a fool to trust the flattery that came with her position as the daughter of a high lord. Everything good in her life was not due to her goodness, or even the nobility of her father, but by chance. The gods did not control everything, her Septa had tried to tell her that, but the lesson went unheeded.

In her childish view, life had been exactly how it should be, so it must have been the will of the gods. It must be their will that smallfolk froze in their huts while her family lived warm and comfortable. They decreed Sansa and her trueborn siblings deserved more love than Jon did. She recognized these realities beforehand, yet never considered that the will of men dictated this hierarchy. Therefore, the covetous, the cruel, and the conceited endlessly seek and fight for power.

The old gods and the seven were fair, just, and righteous, as were the heroes in all the songs and legends. If the highest positions of power are not used to serve the people, those with authority cannot possibly be ordained by the gods. Sansa's parents were good leaders of Winterfell and the smallfolk never starved to riotous madness, even in winter. Her father led the men and her mother led the women with mutual respect for the others' position and opinion.

She once naively believed that she and Joffrey would rule Kings Landing in the same fashion, beloved by their people. 'Silly little bird', Sandor's words frequently rasped in her head. Perhaps he was not always honest yet never fabricated chivalrous lies or noble treachery. 'The hound' served as a mask Sandor wore to protect himself, that was easy to recognize once one took the time to try and understand him.

Was moonblood the secret to 'womanly intuition'?! Sansa fell back onto the bed and smiled up at the ceiling, feeling resoundingly pleased with herself. Her mother would be proud of her... for growing up, not for daydreaming about the hound! Nonetheless, she still longed for her mother's guidance on how to navigate courtly politics. Why had mother declined to teach those lessons? 

After a moment of pondering, the question's obvious answer revealed itself. By their example, her parents taught their children how to live and lead with honor. Sansa wished she had paid closer attention to their lessons and vowed to consult the memory of her parents before making any additional rash schemes. She muffled a chuckle with her palm as she wondered how they would find the company... Sandor's voice always had an opinion.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/unexpected_visitors/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184706326)

# Sandor

A faint glow of torchlight spilled through the darkness, revealing Varys creeping towards him. The spider was alone, dressed all in dark clothing and carrying a sack, which better contain some fucking food. The man approached and knelt beside Sandor before explaining his arrival in an unnecessarily hushed tone.

"I bring sustenance and news from the outside world." Varys unpacked the sack, which contained a wineskin and Sandor did not give any fucks about what else was inside.

"First," he grumbled, reaching his manacled hands out to grab the skin and pulled the cork out with his teeth. After a few good swallows, Sandor recorked the wineskin and grinned at the spider's disapproving frown. "The fuck I need to know about what goes on up there, when I'm stuck down here?"

"Clegane, the Queen clearly has no love for Lady Margery Tyrell and her family's ambitions." Varys settled from his crouching pose and sat facing Sandor. The bald man looked tired, hanging his head and heaving a heavy sigh - doubtful he showed this distress to many people. "As soon as one war ends, another is bound to start again. I would rather end this one and avoid the next entirely."

"And how you planning on doing that?" Sandor couldn't hide the sarcastic tone of his voice - not that he tried - and Varys' head snapped up with a glare.

"Lord Stark was a good man and he died, plunging this kingdom into chaos." Varys' spoke a bit too harsh for Sandor's liking but he wouldn't call the man a liar. "You are not a good man, Clegane, but perhaps you are the kind of man the kingdom needs in these trying times."

"Why would you help me?" Sandor rifled through the sack as he spoke, caring less about the source of the food. Varys must want something from him or from Sansa, but Sandor had no clue what. He found a hunk of cheese and tore off a chunk to throw it in his mouth, washing it down with - bless the spider's generous heart - Dornish red. For a man with no cock, he was alright.

"At first I was curious," the man admitted with a shrug. "I am fairly intelligent, yet it did take some time to make a guess at what our little Stark girl could be up to." Varys smiled as he spoke of Sansa, sounding impressed by her. "She played the part so well, even I never imagined her to be so cunning."

"And you've guessed my part in all of this?" The hound bared his teeth, daring the spider to confront or judge him - about time someone did. Varys should stop the lady before she goes too far, before Sandor lets her go too far. She's little more than a child, with a silly headful of vengeful plans, and needed a firm hand to steer her back into her cage to continue chirping prettily. And still, here sits one of the most influential men in Kings Landing - complimenting her 'cunning'.

"For the good of the realm, I have decided to trust Lady Sansa." Varys was one of the few people who unflinchingly looked Sandor in the face. "I cannot pretend she is only a child with no stake in what goes on around her. She has more reason than most to want to unseat the Lannisters from the Iron Throne, and I will watch closely." Though the spider spoke quietly, Sandor caught the warning and tilted his head in a nod of acknowledgement. 

"Then you will be seeing me often." The hound can make subtle threats too, eunuch. Nodding, the spider rose and left the way he came, good riddance. Blessed dark silence again, Sandor was really starting to feel at home down in this murky hole. Maybe he wasn't even as good as a hound, maybe he was just another rat! Laughing - certain he'd gone fucking mad - he unpacked the goods to eat and drink everything.

Full, and as close to comfortable as he could get down in his new 'home', Sandor stretched out and rested against the jagged wall. Sleep didn't come as quick as it should have - there was something buzzing about his buggering head that wouldn't shut the fuck up. He should've yoked the lady up over his shoulder and snatched her away on the night of the siege. They'd be in Riverrun by now and Lady Sansa would be safe with her family.

With that done, he would have gone somewhere to likely fight and kill people for coin. What else? Sandor could live without a few kisses from a pretty red-haired maiden who was bound to belong to someone else soon enough. It wasn't exactly easy to smuggle a valuable hostage out of Kings Landing. He'd have to wait for the next siege, bound to be another sometime. Would she trust him enough to go with him then? Or was her vengeance more important than her own safety?

He woke with a start - certain he only dreamt the little bird kneeling in front of him, wide eyes gleaming in the dim and a smile curling on her lips. This must surely be a dream since she looked so damned pleased to see him - if that were the case, he'd do as he liked. Sandor reached forward to cup her face and her soft skin felt warm though she couldn't be real. The lady did not recoil from his touch, instead placing her own small hand over his.

"I had to come see you again," lightness sweetened her voice - something must have made her happy. Nearly content just to let her beam cheerfully at him, Sandor began to doubt if this vision truly was a dream. The hard ground beneath him still made his arse ache from sitting too long. His skin remained painful and raw where the metal rubbed his manacled wrists. Might be - he had to wonder - could be, he's fully awake and hallucinating the lady. 

If so, his brains were for shit giving her any clothes at all, least of all a handmaiden's dress. The neckline of her dress slipped to reveal a peek of creamy flesh as she leaned forward, peering up into his eyes. Obviously expecting him to say something - gods know what - she fiddled with a trinket in her hands before holding up the item to show him.

"Shae was clever enough to get her hands on this key to the dungeon somehow, just in case..." Sansa pressed the key into his hand, not voicing out loud she meant to provide him with a means to break out if sentenced to death. Stunned by her apparent loyalty, he reasoned that she might try to save anyone 'innocent'. His suspicion of that crafty foreign wench continued to grow, likely filling her lady's head with these ideas.

"You should have seen me in court!" Sansa spoke comfortably, as if they were 'friends' and it made Sandor uneasy. "I believe I can convince Joffrey to renew our engagement." Her mentioning marriage to that brat irritated the seven hells out of him. The darkness must have covered his scowl because she continued to chat lightheartedly. "If so, convincing him to free you will be easy by comparison."

"So, little bird," Sandor heard her gasp at his menacing tone. "You think a bit of chirping in court will make Joffrey want to marry you?" He sensed Sansa shrinking back from him but he grabbed her forearm, pulling her closer to rasp in her ear. "He'll do what his mother and grandfather tell him to do. Stupid girl," he sneered, "you should have left with me when you had the chance." Sansa turned her face towards his, so close he saw tears filling her furious eyes.

"Who are you to lecture me?" There was the wolf - beautiful in her wrath - shedding her feathers and baring her teeth. "I did what I thought best, and what's done is done." Her chin jutted upwards in a proud fashion, making him want to touch the pale length of her neck. "I won't meekly accept Joffrey's abuse." Sansa spoke in a harsh whisper, although alone with him. "I won't let him get away with murdering my father!"

"He would kill you now if he found you here with me," he growled. Sansa's newfound bravery confounded him - every time he started to think that he understood her, she went and shocked the shit out of him. Her reply was to close the small distance between them and kiss him chastely with lips firmly pressed together. She braced her palms against his shoulders and leaned towards him as her soft lips lingered against his.

He didn't care to stop at just that - leave the heroism of chastity to some bloody knight. The handmaiden dress exposed the pale length of her neck, tempting him away from her sweetly innocent kiss to taste the rest of her. Sandor restrained a growl as his lips brushed over her haughty chin and perfect jawline. And finally, when his face bowed to press his mouth against her neck, Sansa gifted a pretty gasp into his ear and clutched his shoulders. 

Her arms tightened around his neck as he brushed his lips over her silky skin, trailing down her collarbone. As he kissed her, she leaned towards him, breathing in quick and shallow pants. Her apparent consent clouded his mind until he could think of nothing but enjoying whatever she allowed. Sandor brushed his knuckles down along her stomach to curl his fingers around her hip. 

His other hand traced down to rest on her raised thigh and his hand felt the warmth of her skin through the thin dress. The little bird stilled and Sandor inhaled sharply against her shoulder, waiting for her to reject his touch. He could scarcely breathe for fear she might spook and fly away - or fucking slap him. When she did not release her hold on him, he started breathing again. The fabric of her dress snagged against his callused fingertips as he slid up the length of her thigh. 

She breathed a muted sigh, so quiet he never would have heard it if not for her closeness. Was that a sound of encouragement? Did she truly want a beast like him? Instead of pleasing him, he found that the thought annoyed him. How could she possibly go from being furious to desiring him? In a fucking dungeon, no less. Realization washed over him like a bucket of cold water. 

What the fuck was he doing, touching Lady Sansa with his dirty hands down in this stinking hole?! The little bird whimpered a meek protest when Sandor untangled her arms from around his neck and gently pushed her away. The hound picked a terrible time to grow a bloody conscious. Her pale skin glowed in the darkness, almost tempting him beyond any restraint he had left. Either he was the biggest fool who ever lived or - fucking bloody hells - he truly cared about her buggering honor. 

"Go on, little bird, fly back to your cage and I'll see you soon." Sandor held no real hope of ever leaving this dungeon but Lady Sansa still needed to believe in her ability to free him. She reached one hand to his cheek and lightly traced her fingertips from the smooth side of his temple to bearded jaw and smiled. He couldn't've expected her to lunge at him and brush another kiss across his mouth. But that's just what she did, before flashing a mischievous smile and dashing away.

Dark again, the little bird took any light and warmth she brought with her but her kiss still lingered on his lips.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/confronted/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184742587)

# Catelyn

"Mother!" Robb barged into the solar, rousing Catelyn from nearly dozing off. She rose from her seat to meet him, already certain of only one reason why he would be so upset with her. "How could you go behind my back-?" 

"Robb," she interrupted, "forgive me." Catelyn stood in front of her son and bowed her head in a show of appropriate yet entirely false shame. "I had to do something." She peered up to see his unhappy frown deepen, fully understanding that his mother experienced not a pinch of guilt over her 'betrayal'. "Well...?" Robb raised his eyes heavenward at his mother's impatience, sighing as he handed over a small rolled-up parchment with a broken seal.

"Go ahead," he waved at the paper as she accepted it. Catelyn stared at the letter with excited apprehension before settling down onto her seat once more and unrolling it to read aloud. 

"You request for treaty is agreeable..." She gasped and looked up to the tiniest of smirks on her son's handsome face, evidently not too displeased with her actions. "Dear Gods..." Cat read the rest of the short correspondence twice before smiling at Robb. "This could change everything." 

"You should have asked me first," he lightly admonished, walking to join her at the table under her east-facing window. The view of the river was breathtaking first thing in the morning, the water shined like gold-tinted glass. 

"I was afraid you would not listen," she argued, then launched into her well-rehearsed reasoning. "The Starks and Baratheons fought alongside each other before with great success. I wrote to 'Queen' Selyse because she was a Florent before marriage, I assumed she wants her husband to take the Reach from the Tyrells. House Florent does have a higher claim due to their ancestry and they have never forgotten that." 

"I knew," she continued, not even pausing for breath, "Stannis will need to gain power in that region if he is to take back the Stormlands. He always resented being passed over for his younger brother, when Robert gave Renly Storm's End." Finally, she only had one more motive for contacting the Baratheons, a worry they rarely discussed for it was too unnerving. "I am certain... Stannis has received the same ominous message from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." 

"You realize this could have made me look weak, hiding behind my mother." Robb crossed his arms and narrowed his brow at her, obviously irritated yet unable to hide the glimmer of pride hiding in his displeasure. "And you've made offers I can't begin to promise." 

"It is a start, a chance to negotiate and strengthen our position." Catelyn reached out to hold his hand, waiting for acceptance. "So that we may crush the Lannisters from both sides." Robb uncrossed his arms to meet her hand. Despite his current disapproval of her actions, they had grown closer since the birth of his children, a continual source of blessings in these trying times. "I also know you want to end this war and go home, as do I." 

"Never do anything like this again." Robb pulled her hand between both of his and leveled his serious gray eyes at her, so resembling Ned it made her heart ache. "I need to be able to trust you." 

"You can," she promised, still not doubting for an instant that she would repeat her actions if given a second chance. Divine inspiration from the Smith himself provided the idea to use Robert's baseborn son to negotiate with Stannis. Of course, she kept his existence out of the letter, yet counted on the chance to speak with 'King' Stannis in person. Catelyn's ability to contain her curiosity waned until it broke. "Will you send me?" 

"Are you willing to go?" Robb's brow furrowed in concern, shaking his head with a sigh. "Arya needs you now." Catelyn averted her eyes and nodded sadly, unsure what to do about her daughter, grateful at least that she came home. That boy she brought with her was the source of all of Arya's problems yet Robb refused to send him away. Catelyn dared to hope she could turn the tide of this war and be rid of Robert's bastard in one fell swoop. 

"Arya needs me, my father needs me, and the boys need me back in Winterfell..." Catelyn gave her son a small reassuring smile. "I have always been willing to do whatever you need." He blew out a relieved breath and grinned in earnest. 

"Shall we go visit my beautiful daughters?" Robb made no attempt to hide his eagerness as bent his elbow, and offered it to her. 

"I thought you would never ask." Catelyn laughed as she joined him, curling her fingers around her son's arm. Together they exited the chamber in a much calmer fashion than he entered. 'Mother, I feel warm swaddled in your divine protection. Keep my children within your embrace... at least until I can hold them again.'

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/at_door/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184813073)

# Robb

Arya stood in front of Merry's chamber door, staring uncertainly at it in an all too familiar way, before shrugging her shoulders and spinning around. She froze when her eyes landed on Robb, narrowing her brow and making a huffy sound before turning on her heel to march away from him.

"Arya," he called out to her as he jogged the distance between them, putting a hand on her shoulder to turn her towards him. Arya rolled her eyes at him and crossed her arms over her chest, granting him a withering scowl.

"Your Grace," she spat his title with all the respect due a beetle squirming in day-old slop and shrugged his hand from her shoulder. To be honest, he never once blamed her. He knew exactly what it felt like to turn his back on his heart for duty. If he managed it then so could she, as much as it pained him to be the one forcing her to be dutiful.

"Come on now, underfoot." Robb ran his rejected hand through his hair and gave his baby sister a half-smile, to which she turned up her nose. "How long are you going to hate me for?" Part of him did not want the question answered because they were close before they left Winterfell. Arya always wanted to tag along on whatever trouble the boys got into. Those carefree days, when he adored her endearing rebelliousness, seemed a lifetime ago.

"Did you know?" She sneered as she demanded an answer, but Robb had no idea to what she was referring. He held up his hands and shook his head in confusion, receiving a suspicious scowl in response. "Answer me!"

"Know what?" Robb watched as a wary expression came over Arya's face before she sighed and let her curled fists dangle limply by her sides. Her moods were always volatile before, however she never was this easily dejected or quick to defeat. Mother asserted that Arya would abscond away with her blacksmith love: 'so like Lyanna' she had said cryptically, ringing her hands. At the time, he supposed she might be overreacting but apparently, her worry appeared justified.

"She says I have to come with her." That quiet defeated tone almost caused Robb to assure her that she would never be forced to leave Riverrun. He might be the King but Arya remained Lady Catelyn Stark's daughter: it was their mother's place to raise her children. As King in the North: duty demanded he ensure Arya kept the marriage agreement made with Lord Walder. After becoming a father to daughters, accepting that duty grew harder every day.

"Arya," Robb battled within himself to find a reason his sister should submit to mother's good intentions. "She just lost her father." He wished he had taken time to become better acquainted with his grandfather, before Lord Hoster Tully passed away from his long illness. For the girls' sake, mother refused to lose herself in grief. "She misses the boys, she worries about Bran, and she is beside herself about Sansa." Robb raised an eyebrow at his sister, giving her a pointed look. "And you."

"Me?" Arya scoffed, unable to imagine their mother caring about her, proving that his little sister had some growing left to do. Robb internally admitted that he was the one ignoring his responsibilities and mucking everything up just a short while ago. If he suggested she go 'pray to the Old Gods for an answer', Arya would roll her eyes, as he used to at their father. In recent days, he wanted to go seek Their guidance in all things.

"You've come back to her," he explained, "but you're not the little girl she let go to Kings Landing." Robb smiled at Arya's conflicted expression, hovering between weak resistance and reluctant compliance. "I understand her better now that I am a father," he grinned, thinking about the little beauties he was on his way to visit. "Two daughters, no less."

"It is strange to think of you as someone's father," she tried to fight the smile pulling on her lips. Even Arya's stubbornness weakened when Robb mentioned his daughters. Those little girls have accomplished miracles in their short lives. 

"Should we go in and see them?" He cared little for hiding his eagerness, even his bannermen have been ribbing him about the regular visits to his precious little ones. Why should he feel ashamed to be a proud father? There is nothing more manly than loving one's children. 

"Ugh," Arya's eyes darted up and down the hall before leaning in and whispering, "your wife is scary." He covered his snorting laugh by clearing his throat, resting one hand over his mouth and biting down on his smile.

"Merry is simply protective," he reasoned, knowing full and well Arya's complaint was valid. His wife had become a true she-wolf about their daughters, doubtful his troublesome little sister's hands were ever clean enough. "You'll love her once the girls are a bit older and she's not quite so-" Robb searched his mind for a less offensive word.

"Obsessed?" Arya had no qualms about insulting anyone, making Robb chuckle and ruffle her hair. She swatted his hand away and tried to smooth her hair back into place, succeeding in making herself more unkempt. "Alright," she sighed, holding up her hands in defeat. "But I'm not holding one, she watches me like I'm going to infect the baby with my impudence."

"Come on," Robb slung an arm around her shoulders and knocked on Merry's door. A voice from inside bid them to enter and he swung the door open to reveal his wife and mother sitting next to each other, each holding an infant. The familiar scene never ceased to leave him awestruck.

"Praise the gods," Robb entered the chamber with his arm still wrapped around his sister. "I'm a lucky man indeed: to be loved by so many beautiful women." Arya made a disgusted sound in her throat and threw off his arm, making him laugh. He crossed the chamber to stand beside his mother first, noticing how tired she looked since her father passed. "Mother, how is my sweet Corenna?"

"My handsome son," she replied with a teasing note to her voice, "you will have to ask your wife... this is Minisa."

"Of course!" Robb reached down to stroke the back of his finger over his daughter's soft cheek. "Forgive me, Niss, your poor old father is going blind." Niss only gurgled a bit and she might have smiled at him for the briefest of instants. Turning his attention to Merry, he walked to stand by her side and gaze at his other child, sleeping peacefully in her arms. "Wife, are you well?"

"Not so well that I won't miss your mother's help," she lamented, the strain and distress clear in her voice. Robb prayed Merry's distrust of everyone, when it came to the children, would wane some as the girls grew. Since they were born, only their grandmother was allowed to hold either of them for any length of time. Even he spent little time alone with his daughters: Arya was not the only one watched carefully.

"I wish you accepted more help from the Septas," he chided lightly. "I brought them here to help you."

"I trust Septa Bonnard..." Merry shook her head, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the slumbering infant. "Yet, she is not family." Though they spoke in hushed whispers, Corenna stirred, her gray eyes fluttering open and settling their serious gaze on her father. "Ren, do you want to see your father?" Robb nearly fell over when his wife offered to let him hold their child: she usually had to be persuaded with every charming smile in his arsenal.

"Are you absolutely sure?" He gave into the urge to tease her: Merry only clucked her tongue and turned her eyes heavenward. Robb took a seat at the table and eagerly held out his arms while his wife had anxiety all over her face.

"There's a sweet girl," she crooned at the baby while passing her into Robb's arms. "Mind her head, tilt your elbow, and fix the blanket-"

"Merry," he interrupted with a grin, his heart still not used to flying to the heavens every time he held one of his children. "I think I can handle it." Robb tilted his head towards his sister, keeping his eyes on Merry. "Why don't you and Arya go take a turn about the Godswood and get some fresh air?"

"Robb..." Merry's reluctant eyes never left their daughter's face as she started to protest.

"You've hardly left this room since the girls were born," he admonished, secretly hoping for his mother's support of his argument. Mother wisely stayed out of his marital debates, but was not above being used as a chaperone. "They are doing well: mother and I can be trusted with them for a short while."

"Oh... Very well then," she agreed, as if he was asking her to martyr herself for his war effort instead of taking a walk with Arya.

"Arya," he called his sister, "keep an eye on my wife and make sure no rapscallions are tempted by her beauty to steal her away from me." Merry huffed an exasperated laugh but Robb saw a blush alight her cheeks before turning away. The ladies departed the room silently, both looking the other over warily.

"I am shocked you convinced her to leave," mother made a relieved sound and crooned a murmur of babbling endearments to Niss.

"Is this normal?" Robb kept his voice low though his wife was long out of earshot. "I understood when they were first born: so weak they could hardly cry. Merry near killed herself caring for them, but they're chubby little bundles now." He gazed into the healthy face of his daughter, seeing her bright eyes alert and calm. "Why is she still-?"

"Obsessed?" Lady Catelyn resembled her youngest daughter more than either cared to admit. Robb held the secret hope that they might work out their differences on their trip to Dragonstone: killing each other was another likely scenario. "It is not so unusual," she explained, "especially given the circumstances. It will pass eventually and I doubt she will behave this way with the next child." Mother's assured tone never lost its ability to comfort.

"We have plenty of time yet before then," he commented, not really meaning to discuss the subject.

"My son..." She was setting herself up for an argument: he could sense it after all these years debating with her. "You need an heir. If they were boys I would tell you to wait as long as she likes-"

"It's not just her who wants to wait," he used his most commanding voice and set his kingly gaze on her. Robb hated to use his position to cow his own mother, but he had no wish to debate during this precious time with Ren and Niss. "I've a war to win and two daughters to worry about."

"The way you feel now," her voice quieted as she averted her gaze to lovingly watch little Niss's hand reaching up from the swaddling blanket. "That protectiveness... it never goes away," mother turned her softened eyes towards him, "no matter how old your babies get." Her meaning was clear, she still wanted to protect him and her other children, not at all helping his conflicted sentiments about Arya.

As he gazed at Corenna's sweet face, seemingly content to watch him in return, knowing that he could never force his children to marry for duty. That soft part of his heart even wanted to give Gendry a chance to prove himself at the very least. After all, the young man braved the entire journey with Arya despite the risks. If Robb merely held the title 'Warden of the North', he might find a way to let his sister be happy. Even so, a king cannot rule his household any less diligently than a kingdom.

The risks of sending Arya and mother across Westeros, to negotiate with a man who once declared Robb an 'enemy of the Iron Throne', were far too many. These negotiations might turn the tide of the war in his favor, if Stannis was capable of being reasonable: and of that, Robb had doubts. Mother could be quite persuasive when she wanted to be and she nearly succeeded in her talks with Renly before he was killed.

In the back of his mind, Robb could not forget the night his mother stared stoically ahead and confessed a gruesome tale he almost refused to accept: if not for the haunted look in her eyes. He found Lady Brienne the next day and she gave him a similar, much angrier, version of the same tale. The noble and good lady knight would be disappointed when she learned of the impending negotiations so he thought it best to ask her to stay behind and guard the kingslayer.

Everywhere around him, every day, good people that he cared for had to be made to do as he wished. The war demanded a callousness he never thought himself capable of: even doubted it still. 'Sansa', his mind whispered to the Old Gods as he bowed to kiss the impossibly soft cheek of his daughter. One tear was all he could afford to let go, wiping it away quickly before mother noticed. 'For her, for all of them: I must win this war.'

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/stroll_in_godswood/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184801735)

# Merry

"Are you excited to make the journey to Dragonstone?" Merry struggled to find a topic of conversation, unaware of her goodsister's interests. "I have read that the structure itself is quite fascinating." She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, comfortable enough in the chilly air, aghast that Arya seemed perfectly content without wearing a coat.

"Oh sure," the fierce girl scoffed a laugh. "I'm really 'excited' to be carted across the thrice-damned continent - considering how much I enjoyed the journey from the Crownlands." Scorn dripped from every word, dolloped with a healthy globule of bitterness. "I am just 'dying' to get back on the road."

"Forgive me." Merry usually knew better than to let some fiddle-faddle fall from her lips. "I should have thought-"

"No," the girl lightly touched Merry's arm to interrupt. "I'm the one who is sorry," she sighed, "this is our first real conversation and I am berating you for something entirely not your fault." Arya removed her fingers and locked her hands behind her back, looking up at the canopy the redwoods made. "I suppose you have heard all about the blacksmith I brought with me."

"Only bits and pieces," Merry answered carefully. Riverrun buzzed with gossip about the princess's lowborn companion. She had assumed it would be difficult to pull any information directly from the source and was surprised to hear the girl bring up the topic. "I overhear he is fine-looking."

"Revoltingly so," Arya made a disgusted sound, like a boar snorting. "I feel like a lizard-lion standing next to him." Merry had yet to set eyes on her goodsister's... lover? Robb was unclear exactly what he 'caught' them doing in that forest, though he grumbled about how 'that bastard' 'dishonored' his baby sister. She secretly thought it all sounded terribly romantic, yet her husband would not recognize romance if it bit him on the nose.

"I understand how you feel," Merry complained and wrung her hands, "completely." The gloom that settled over the two ladies was totally at odds with the light and airy atmosphere of the Godswood. Birds flitted through the branches high above their heads, singing their cheery songs, ignorant of heartache.

"Mother thinks if she takes me away I will forget him." Arya clearly resented Lady Catelyn's rather predictable behavior. "As if it were just that easy." She emphasized her words with a snap of her fingers before letting her hand fall to her side.

"Perhaps she desires to spare you further pain." Merry had come to understand her goodmother better since Niss and Ren were born, the lady was gentle as warm water and tougher than steel.

"If I have learned anything - love is pain." It was a bit strange to hear such profoundly true words from the mouth of someone so young.

"You express the precise sentiment etched on my heart," Merry regretted her quiet agreement as soon as the words left her lips. Arya rounded on her, blocking the path with wide eyes and an expression of disbelief.

"Robb is not good to you?" Arya appeared completely shocked by her goodsister's admission. Merry could kick herself for spewing pointless nonsense: she learned long ago not to wear her heart on her sleeve.

"Oh, no!" Merry held up her hands, searching for a way to explain herself. "He is! I..." Merry let go of the breath she held and hung her head, unable to keep her emotions bottled up in front of someone as honest about her feelings as Arya. "He does not love me," she confessed. The girl nodded, as if she understood and somehow that made Merry's heart feel a little lighter.

"Even if a man says he loves you - it just means they think they know what's best for you." Arya scowled as she imparted more of her uncanny wisdom, returning to Merry's side so they could continue their walk.

"So, your blacksmith returns your affection?" Merry crossed her arms under her cloak, to rub her palms over them, though she was not truly cold. "I envy you."

"Don't bother," Arya ripped a leaf off of a nearby fern and started destroying it with admirable ferocity. "There is nothing to envy." She threw the naked stem over her shoulder and released a pained groan. "I have not spoken with him in some time and during our last conversation - I pulled my sword on him."

"You own a sword?!" Merry felt both impressed and shocked by the news that Arya actually kept a weapon. She always desired to learn how to fight, yet none of her male relatives would risk grandfather's wrath if she got hurt.

"I could teach you a bit of swordplay, when I return." Arya, shrewd despite her obviously wild nature, sensed Merry's interest right away.

"I would like that very much," she beamed at the girl, who grinned back... the same expression Robb wore when he was pleased. "With your consent, I can watch over your blacksmith while you are away." Merry linked arms with her goodsister as she continued down the path. "To ensure no one attempts to force his departure."

"You would do that - for me?" Arya seemed more surprised at the offer than suspicious. "Why?"

"You are my sister now." Merry regretted never being close to any of her siblings and cousins as they all feared her relationship with grandfather. "If I can give you some advice..." She paused, waiting for the girl to nod her permission. "Do not let the wounds you have inflicted on each other fester. Mend things now, before the chasm between you is too large to cross."

"Thank you, Merry." Arya stood a little straighter and appeared to gain some visible aura of energy. "You are the first person here who has actually cared about what I want."

"We are a family," Merry smiled down at the girl, "this is how it should be."

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/meeting_with_king/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=185114829)

# Brienne

"You asked to see me, Your Grace?" Brienne glanced around the command tent after she entered, discovering that this was to be a private meeting. The king's elbows posted on the table and his forehead rested against his fists, only looking up when he heard her come in. King Robb sat alone at the head of a square table laid out with a detailed map of Westeros topped with battle and troop markers.

"Yes, Lady Brienne," he waved a hand at the seat to his right. "Please, have a seat." She was not about to refuse a request from a king but it made her nervous to sit and preferred standing. "Your loyalty and service to me cannot possibly be rewarded to match my appreciation." The words were more praise than she ever hoped to hear, yet his tone spiked with hesitation as he spoke.

"You honor me," she replied carefully and took her seat. "I require no reward: I serve Lady Catelyn and her family." Brienne had to remind herself not to add 'Your Grace' to the end of every statement: as per his request.

"Mother does have the ability to inspire a sense of loyalty," speaking of Lady Catelyn set a smile on the king's otherwise stressed features. "I admire that about her."

"As do I." Brienne admired many things about Lady Catelyn, which was why she willingly served the lady's son though her heart still carried only one true king.

"Lady Brienne," King Robb inhaled and set his steely gaze on Brienne. "The charge of kinslaying you make against Stannis Baratheon is difficult to ignore. I believe you think you saw Stannis in the shadow that killed him. My mother says the shadow was indistinguishable: however she admits it could have been him." Brienne held her tongue, although she badly wanted to argue and plead with the man to believe her version of events. 

"If," he continued, "evidence comes to light that Stannis arranged or caused the murder of his younger brother: I will see that justice is done, believe me." King Robb never wavered as he made his promise and Brienne disagreed with him, yet trusted his word. "Until then, I cannot ignore a chance to end all of this bloodshed and unnecessary death." He was right, of course, and she would not argue with him.

"You are forming an alliance with Stannis." She was not asking, Brienne could already tell why the King explained these things to her.

"I am sending my mother to negotiate with him," he looked grim at the prospect and she did not blame him one bit for worrying. She knew exactly how dangerous Stannis could be: if only the king believed her! "I would ask that you stay here to continue guarding the kingslayer, as I trust no one else to do the job."

"I see," she bit back the multitude of arguments straining to escape. "I will do as you command. Is that all, Your Grace?"

"No," he looked away from her then, gazing down at the map and letting his eyes sweep over the table. "You may request to leave at any time. A horse and a purse, with whatever sum you ask for, are yours." King Robb returned one hand to his temple to massage between his brows. "I do not wish to force any more people to do anything they don't want to do." Brienne often forgot how very young Robb Stark was and yet he bore his burden as well as any king.

"I am honored that you trust me to guard your most valuable hostage." Brienne tried to give her most reassuring smile, worrying that she looked too ugly to be a comfort. "I will worry about your mother's safety: however, I doubt no more than you." King Robb grinned, looking more the carefree youth he should be, rather than the overburdened man he was.

"Don't worry about mother too much: I am sending the Blackfish and a full escort of men along with her." King Robb smirked and looked away, as if remembering a private joke. "My sister will be going as well: she could take on Tywin's army single-handedly." He leveled a handsome winsome smile on Brienne. "If only everyone else around me were as level-headed as you, Lady Brienne." His wistful tone was proof enough that he meant the compliment sincerely.

"I will return to my post if there is nothing else," she rose quickly, wanting to get out of the tent before the emotion welling in her throat made her say something stupid. Brienne bowed low, keeping her hand on her sword so it would not jangle embarrassingly.

"Of course," he smiled up at her, looking quite a bit more relaxed than when she came in. "Good day, my lady."

"Good day, Your Grace." Brienne left the tent, acknowledging that she did greatly respect King Robb. However, she would not forego her vengeance. She would simply have to be patient and someday: Stannis would know justice by her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my first rest day of the week, from strength training, and I'm... so... tired... But! Lifting really is the perfect exercise for people who *loath* cardio (shout-out to my fellow asthmatics). Right now I'm following (attempting) the beginner regimen laid out in Arnold Schwarzenegger's "The New Encyclopedia of Bodybuilding" and using various websites to double-check form. Bodybuilding.com is a great resource. So, the question is: will strength training heal my RSI injuries and bring me back up to a regular-posting physique? Time will tell but I feel good, exhausted - but good.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on HBO's "Game of Thrones" - Original Series by George R. R. Martin.


End file.
